


Next of Kin

by ClassicHer



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Drinking, F/M, Murder, Mystery, Romance, Slow Burn, Violence, canon typical stuff, implications of drugs, my canon now, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24599863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicHer/pseuds/ClassicHer
Summary: Talrose is a Dunmer living in the harbor district of Anvil, perfectly content to gamble away her meager wages on wine. Together, she and her brother, Mithel, scrape together a life after ten years away from Morrowind. Until, one morning, her life is upended by a strange, brutal discovery, and she is forced to embark on a quest of vengeance and justice. Dark roads lead her deeper into an underground world of intrigue and romance, murder for coin, and the crucial love of family.
Relationships: Lucien Lachance/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 23





	1. Part One: Anvil

**Author's Note:**

> "Beneath the silence, the sound of the sea,  
> the sea's violence spreading everywhere, not finished, not finished,  
> his breath driving the waves--
> 
> But she knows who she is and she knows what she wants.  
> As long as that's true, something so natural can't hurt her."
> 
> Louise Glück, from 'Marriage' (Poems 1962-2012)

The dice were loaded, of course. No other way to play.

Talrose had purchased them for a very reasonable price. Made of rat bones, they were, crudely painted. Better quality than her last ones. She flung them into the table and turned away to pull off her bottle of wine, didn’t need to look at the result, listened to the outraged shouting from the men around her.

“That’s cheating, is what it is,” an Imperial pirate slammed his fist into the side of the table. Piracy was, of course, illegal in Cyrodiil. Not like the port authority could tell a pirate from a parrot.

“Cheating?” Tal feigned indignation, placing a hand on her chest. “ _Me?”_

The fellows around the table grumbled, swirling their drinks while she raked the pile of coins towards herself. Music was banged out by a triplet of Argonians in the corner of the room, drums, strings and a strange hissing singing. It was a little barnacle called the Flowing Bowl, technically an inn, but mostly utilized by locals as a hole to get drunk in.

“Always said, can’t trust a Dark Elf,” a Nord behind her muttered. “Least of all at gambling.”

Talrose hooked an arm over the back of her chair and twisted to face him. “You tell that to your sister while you were fucking her?”

One of the sailors dissolved into hysterical giggles. The Nord went red in the face. “Come here and say that to my face, you little milk-drinker!”

“Is that what you call a face where you come from?” She grinned. “We call it something else in Morrowind.”

“I’ll show you a face, you…” he was caught, mid-knuckle-cracking, around the elbow by his companion, a Breton man, for whom this was clearly not his first time calming his friend. After some muttering, the Nord dropped back down in his seat, snatching up his flagon of ale. “Forget it. Not worth the trouble.”

“Aye, Tal,” one of the sailors, an Imperial, snapped his fingers. A ruby earring winked at her. She knew this one, just couldn’t remember his name. “Let’s make this interesting. Double or nothing.”

“I think my luck’s run out, boys,” Tal turned back to the table, juggling her dice in her hand.

“No such thing!” Ruby Earring whistled to the bar. “Aye, barman! Get my friend here another bottle!”

The owner and barman, a Wood Elf named Maenlorn, smiled tightly at them and fetched another bottle of wine. When he set it in front of Tal, he said, “On your tab, again, I assume?”

“The very same, if you don’t mind.” She batted her eyelashes. “And some more bread and cheese for my friends, here. Can’t have them getting too drunk, I’ve not whipped them at dice nearly long enough.”

Ruby Earring cackled, slapping one of the other sailors on the back. Maenlorn scoffed, shaking his head as he returned to the bar, calling, “I want the tab in _gold_ this time, not fish!”

Talrose could hardly take a drink from laughing too hard. Coughing back wine, she gasped, “All right, then, you salty fetchers. Who’s in this round?”

“I’m in,” Ruby Earring grinned, exposing rotted yellow nubs for teeth. “I’ll double my bet, if you throw in that fancy sword of yours.”

“What, this?” Talrose wiggled the hilt of her sword, Nammu, where it peeked over her shoulder. It was a magnificent longsword, the black leather sheath scratched from thirty rough years in her care. A perfect sphere of obsidian adorned the pommel, straight from the ashlands of her home. The damned thing was as old as the Red Mountain, had seen most of its use in the hands of her great-grandfather. “This one’s not for sale.”

“I’m not trying to buy it,” he said. “I’m trying to _win_ it. Fair and square. We can use your dice, if that makes you feel all warm inside.”

A moment of sobriety narrowed her vision. “No.”

“How about that pretty necklace?” He pointed. Referring to the black pearl around her neck, a bluish-green, malformed blob that shimmered with iridescence like an Argonian’s scales. “Has to be worth something.”

She smiled. Typical slimy pirates. “Why are you trying to complicate this, _serjo_? Just use gold like a good boy.”

“What if I offered to throw in—"

“ _Kaoc_ ’, I said no.” Tal snapped. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Ruby Earring sneered, and his eyes drifted over her shoulder. “Ah, just in time. Looks like your mam’s come calling you home.”

Talrose twisted around. Scanning the room at the entrance to the tavern was Mithel, frowning and twisting his hands. The instant he laid his eyes on her, he began pushing through the crowded drinking hall to reach her, apologizing and squeezing through.

“Great…” she muttered under her breath, hunching back over the table.

“Tal!” Mithel stumbled up to her. Her younger brother was skinny and tall, like a reed, with shorn black hair. Around his neck was a pearl, the twin to her own. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

She raised her bottle to him. “You found me. Well done.”

“You were supposed to be at work already,” he hissed. “Mirabelle sent me to find you. What are you doing here?”

“Having a drink with my wonderful new friends,” she gestured across the table at the greasy pirates and seamen. They raised their cups to her, chuckling along. “Join us! There’s room for one more.”

Mithel ran a hand down his face. “No, Tal. Come, we should be going.”

He grasped her under the elbow and pulled her up to her feet. Tal tore her arm away from him, stumbling back into the table. Towers of gold jumped and cascaded into piles, unattended drinks sloshed dangerously. “Get off of me!”

“Fine, fine,” he held up his hands. “Can we leave, please?”

“No.” Tal waved a finger at him, from the fist still holding her bottle. “I’m not going anywhere with…you. You think you’re like Father, but you’re not. You’re like Mother.”

Mithel put an arm around her back, pulling her away from her table of winnings. “Whatever you say. Come along.”

“I said, get _off!”_ Tal wrenched back out of his grip, tripped and fell into someone.

Cold ale dumped over her head. She spluttered, wiped her face, tasted foam and hops. Mithel was apologizing above her, but not to her. Tal grasped the edge of the table and found her footing. A Breton man with an empty flagon was talking to her, but she didn’t care a whit what he was saying, could only feel the beer soaking her shirt and the hot embarrassment from her gambling table’s raucous laughter behind her. She snatched a handful of the Breton’s tunic and yanked him forward, straight into a wild punch she swung with her other fist. The bones of his cheek and her knuckles cracked together, and the man howled in pain, stumbling back. 

“Talrose!” Mithel wailed.

“ _Hey!_ ” The Nord from before dumped over a table, crashing through the room towards her. Tal shoved the first man away and faced him just in time to receive a brusque strike across the face, a bright hot burst of pain.

She laughed, wiping blood from her upper lip, shaking her sore hand. “Come on, _n’wah_!”

The Nord snarled and threw a clumsy punch, which she managed to duck. She slammed a fist into his gut, and he struck her away with a sharp slap to the side of her head. She snatched a cup from the table and whipped it at him, where it thumped anticlimactically against his chest. The Nord guffawed, grabbed her bodily around the chest, and flung her across the bar. She rolled across a table, felt it give under her weight, and yelped as she dumped over onto the other side. Clay mugs, beer, playing cards rained down on her, a symphony guided by the outraged shouting of the patrons whose table was now vertical.

As she brushed broken ceramic from her hair, the Nord wrenched aside the table, exposing her like a bug under a rock. She lunged for him again and he caught her around the neck with one meaty fist. With the other he punched her in the ribs, once, twice, more. She gagged, feeling sick in her throat. Talrose snarled like a beast, burying her nails in the hand around her neck, kicking at his knees. Her vision was swimming—she was being held off the ground.

“That’s enough!” Mithel grabbed the Nord’s arm, yanking on him. “She’s had enough!”

“Stop this madness!” Another voice hollered over the din. The music stopped.

Everything spun in a dizzy blur of light, the world was upside down. Something struck her back, the pressure on her neck was gone, and she could breathe again. Now on her knees, Tal coughed and spat a troublesome gob of something to the side. Her mouth tasted like blood. Hands shook her shoulders, and she blinked Mithel into view.

“…rose? Tal? Are you okay?” He patted her cheek. She slung an arm over his shoulders, and he dropped his head in a sigh of relief. “Ancestors, you scared me.”

She chuckled and spat again. “You scare too easy.”

Mithel lifted Tal up, holding her arm around his shoulders. The smeared colors of the tavern focused back into clear images. The bar had come to a standstill, half the room destroyed and most patrons now on their feet, uncertainly milling in the spaces between upturned tables. Awkward silence reigned, as the Argonian musicians exchanged nervous looks.

“All of you, out!” Maenlorn demanded, marching into the center of the room.

“She started this whole mess!” The Nord protested, looking up from attending the bruised face of his Breton companion.

“I don’t care who started what!” He waved his arms. “Get _out_ of here before I get the port authority _in_ here!”

Tal struggled out of Mithel’s grasp, finding unsteady ground. She fumbled to the table where she had been gambling and scraped her winnings into her purse with clumsy hands.

“Sorry, boys, but it seems to be last call for me.” She said, tying her purse.

Ruby Earring laughed, raising his drink. “Thank you kindly for a night of entertainment. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Be utterly bored, I’m sure.” Tal gave a mock curtsey, grabbed her half-spilled bottle of wine from the floor, and allowed herself to be towed away by Mithel.

Outside, the night air was as crisp as a cold cup of water. Talrose took a deep breath in, and coughed it out when pain from her ribs stabbed her. The sister moons of Masser and Secunda cast the dingy harbor in shades of blue and black. She slid to the side of the building and took refuge atop a stack of shipping crates, massaging her sore throat. Waves sloshed against the ships in the bay, creaking, like the songs of gigantic colorful birds.

“This can’t keep happening, Tal,” Mithel said. “What were you thinking?”

“Why do you care?” She rummaged for a tobacco leaf in her pocket, located it, tore the fresh green in half and popped it into her mouth. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“I know. Because if I had _not_ come down here, I probably wouldn’t see you for the next few days.”

The door of the tavern opened beside them, blasting a beam of orange light, smoky air and laughter out onto the dark street. It was the Breton man, holding a swollen eye, followed shortly by the Nord, who slammed the door behind them.

“Sorry about your face!” Tal called to the Breton. The Nord shot her a glare, shook his head, and disappeared into the maze of back alleys.

Mithel stepped in front of her. “This is what I mean. Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Starting fights! How many times are you going to get your arse handed to you before you learn?” He rubbed his temples, blowing out a long sigh. “I swear, sometimes I feel like we were born in the wrong order.”

“Right.” She clapped her hands on her knees and slid off of her crate. “If you’re so talented, why do you bother with me? Plenty of houses for sale in the city. Just go off on your own, already.” She stalked off into the dark wharf.

“Where are you going?” He called, exasperated.

She waved, not looking back. “Hopefully, somewhere I’m not banned!”

“Talrose!” He protested, but she was off. No point in arguing with him. Precious little Mithel went to Balmora for an education, and ever since, he was never wrong. Just because she liked having fun didn’t mean she was a child. After everything she sacrificed for them, for their family. All the years she spent laboring over Father, with nothing but a catatonic mother for thanks. Getting drunk once in a while was only the least of what she deserved.

The Anvil harbor was a huge fishhook, a gulf of water where the ships came to port, lined with houses. Neighborhood and business were as one in the harborside district. The buildings started tall nearest the port and gradually slipped back, becoming more stunted, abandoned, in disrepair, with the worst of the lot being crammed right up to the wall of the city. Although the harbor was considered an official district of Anvil, it was outside the city walls, probably for some convenient tax reason. Talrose didn’t care. The guards who patrolled the harbor were just as crooked as everyone else who lived there, and that level of quasi-lawfulness suited her just fine.

She passed the flickering lights from windows along the street, stepping over the prone bodies of beggars. Skooma dealers and their clients muttered in dark corners. A duo of city guards passed her, exchanging a flask and chuckling. A group of men hunched over in a doorway, shaking dice, casting suspicious looks her way. Tal was tempted to stop and join, but she kept on, eventually finding a nest of fishing net off the main street. Groaning, she plopped down, rubbing her sore limbs. Damned Nord. Supposed she had started it, though.

“Ancestors, damn it…” she dropped her head back, jerking when she knocked her skull on Nammu’s hilt. “Ugh…”

She shrugged the sword off her back and into her arms, cradling it. Part of her wanted to return to the Flowing Bowl and apologize to Mithel, go with him to work, and just forget about their fight. Tal shut her eyes, settling into her fishnet bed, scaring away those complicated thoughts. She’d go home soon. Just needed to lick her wounds.

* * *

Talrose snorted awake. Pale morning light was struggling through the overcast sky. She smacked her lips, turned and spat out a sticky half leaf of tobacco. Her stiff arms were still wrapped awkwardly around Nammu. Joints creaking, she got to her feet, kicking off tangled fishnet. One fist was still clutched around her bottle, but when she went to drink, received only a couple meager drops. She flung it over her shoulder. Everything throbbed from her beating the previous night.

“Getting too old for this…” she slung Nammu over one shoulder and stepped out into the main street.

Seagulls screeched overhead, circling the crowded masts in the bay. The black crust of the wharf was receding in the daylight, soon to be replaced with only a slightly more respectable breed. Mostly sailors, doing their duties for the day before they set sail, moving cargo and the like, jobs she herself had done when short on cash. Vendors with rickety stalls tried to sell her fish, imported vegetables, porridge.

She slowed at a table propped up on the window to a house. Fresh wheat rolls were steaming on the table, glistening with honey. No one in sight. Tal grabbed three buns in one hand, jammed a fourth in her mouth, and quickly bustled away down the wharf. Not running—running was too obvious. Just walk.

Mithel wouldn’t be too pleased with her methods of acquiring breakfast, but he wouldn’t be complaining once he got some food. They had to survive. He was just too much of a coward to do what needed to be done. Besides, she owed him a peace offering after last night.

Their house was a few alleys back, not quite beachfront property. It was saddled in the middle of a dozen other apartments just like it, a slumped mess of boarded-up windows, ill-fitting doors, and would-be balconies melting into each other. A few dying potted plants attempted to brighten the scenery. Old ship sails were slung across the street between homes, casting permanent twilight over the block.

Talrose reached for the handle to the door, and stopped cold.

Blood.

A large handprint grasped the doorway, smeared, rusty red, already dry. A stifled noise came out of her throat and she fell back a few steps. Red boot prints were leading out from under the door, away around the corner. Fear had a cold fist around her spine, nailing her to the spot.

“Ancestors, damn it all…” she dropped the honey rolls, wiped her sweating palms on her trousers, shrugged one shoulder down to let Nammu fall down her arm. She drew the blade, the long steel whispering in the silence. After a long, stony moment, feeling came back into her legs, and she kicked open the door, lunging in with Nammu leading, half expecting something to jump out at her.

And on the other side was…nothing. Nothing but dusty silence. Tal crept into her house, surveying the scene before her.

It stank of old fish, salt and metallic blood. The one table she owned had been upended, the chairs too. Shattered wood from the furniture was strewn across the floor. Both sleeping cots were covered in muddy boot prints, snapped frames like broken bones. The stew pot was on its side, vomiting old soup onto the wet earth. Embers from the fireplace were spilt out into the living area. And across everything, blood. It was dashed across the walls, smeared in handprints on everything. A small pool of it was drying in the middle of the floor, the size of her fist, still black-red and glistening wet.

“Mithel?” Her voice was tiny in the empty room. No one answered back.

The room was spinning. Her ears were ringing. She fell back against the door, dropped Nammu with a clatter, and ended up on her ass, eye level with the carnage. It was as though she were watching herself from outside, looking down. Minutes went by in dead silence.

It had to be a dream. Tal squeezed her eyes shut, bringing her knees up to her forehead. Never before had she wanted to badly to wake up in an alley. Start the entire day over. When she opened her eyes, she was still alone on the floor of her house.

Something glittered amongst the wreckage. Talrose saw it winking at her, beckoning _._ She closed her dry mouth and crawled through the filth to meet it.

The glittering prize was half submerged in the shallow pool of blood. It was her necklace. No—not hers. The other one. Mithel’s matching one. She drew it out of the blood, shuddering at how cold it was. The leather cord was drenched, snapped at the back. A fat bead of blood dripped off the purple-green pearl. Syrupy.

She gripped it tight in her hand.

Everything came crashing back down on her. Sound, light, the smell of the world. She tied Mithel’s necklace around her neck. It was cold and damp. Blood drooled down her chest. Anger ignited in her stomach and she grasped ahold of it. Anger was good, hot, a friend she could rely on. Anger got her feet moving. She snatched Nammu up off the floor and stormed out of the house, smashing the door open with her bare foot.

It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.


	2. Anvil: Last Refuge of the Incompetent

The boot prints led away from her front door, around the corner, stepping-stones of red. Talrose walked with them, matching her pace to theirs. It could be Mithel—he was taller than her. Her stomach was rolling. She adjusted her grasp on Nammu’s long grip, her palms sweaty.

The trail led her deep into the neglected rind of the harbor, towards the city walls. More of the houses were abandoned here. Dark windows, gaping eyes that watched her hunting through the labyrinth of rotting apartments. Moss and mold had overtaken the street, and Tal slipped more than once on the slick stone.

Despite her best instincts, her imagination wandered. Could Mithel have moved with such severe injuries? It was possible. But he was so scrawny…she pictured his narrow little face, the premature laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes, and walked faster.

It was dim in the back harbor. Flies buzzed at pools of slime, and the streets became narrower. She felt she was being pushed somewhere, shunted through angular gaps in buildings, losing the light of the morning. This was a foreign place to her; not even the saltiest sailor bothered with the back harbor. It was half ghost town, the sounds and smells of the waterfront faded to a distant muffle, like a party through a wall.

The boot prints began to fade away, fainter and fainter. Tal felt desperation push on her chest, and she picked up the pace again, now jogging. The tracks became nothing more than ghostly smudges until they had completely disappeared, and soon she was left in the middle of the street with nothing left to follow.

Tal paced down a few adjacent streets, hoping for a resurgence, but found nothing.

“Damn it all!” She kicked a nearby bucket as hard as she could, sent it skipping down the street, towards a funny little table where a clay pitcher balanced, like a phantom tea party.

She looked down. Sticky, dried blood coated her hands up to her wrists. Her blue-grey palms were dyed rusty brown. It could be Mithel’s. Could be someone else’s. The second option was discomforting but… better than the alternative. Wouldn’t be the first time she was covered in a stranger’s blood, certainly wouldn’t be the last. All at once she felt sick, and began frantically scrubbing her hands in her shirt, setting Nammu against a nearby wall. A threadbare shawl covered her shoulders, and she started to pull it off to use as a handkerchief.

A musical shatter, like glass breaking. Tal looked up. The pitcher at the end of the street was now on the ground, in pieces. A shiver tickled the back of her neck.

“Who’s there?” She called. “Mithel?”

Tal slowly brought Nammu back to her, holding the long grip in both hands, blade outward. The grip had been remade with slaughterfish skin when she had inherited it, smooth and leathery. It had been a long time since she had needed it for anything other than intimidating drunken suitors, but it felt good. Felt right, to be holding it properly again, more comfortable in the hand than she remembered. Like it was happy to see her.

“Come out, whoever you are!” She demanded. Silence answered.

She could feel eyes on her. Tal swallowed, her throat dry. Swung a quick glance over her shoulder, but she was alone in the street.

Ahead, the air rippled. It was only the slightest shift, a glitter like light on water, so fast she almost missed it. Tal blinked, ran her eyes in circles to be sure she hadn’t just caught a ghost in her eyes from the sun. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She took a step back, licked her lips, and held her breath. In the dead silence that dropped on the alley, she heard it—the tiny whisper of someone else’s breathing.

Talrose swung Nammu in a wild cut, as wide as she could. The edge of the blade caught on something, pulled, ripped. A shred of black fabric materialized on the sword and drifted to the ground.

“Ha!” She laughed. “I knew it. Fight me like a man, coward.”

The moss that covered the street bowed under the pressure of invisible feet. Tal watched them, back and forth. She felt, more than saw, the sudden rush of intent in her direction, and blindly flailed Nammu out before her. This time she missed. Something hooked around her ankle and tore her off her feet. She flung out an arm to catch herself, hit the ground awkwardly, almost cut her face with her own sword.

She scrabbled to her feet, waving Nammu back and forth. The energy pumping in her veins numbed out the bruises and aches from the night before. Now there were definite footsteps around her, no longer trying to hide. Tal rotated, waiting for another water-light shimmer.

“Show yourself,” she spat. “That spell won’t last forever.”

A flicker, and in the space between blinks, a figure appeared before her. A Khajiit, male just by the sheer size of him. All black, glossy, with long tufted ears that were pierced with gold rings. In his right hand was a dagger, ebony to match him, a wicked thorn inlaid with gold. His eyes were mismatched—one green, one gold.

“So, you do have a spine,” Tal mused, straightening up a bit. The Khajiit responded with a rude hand gesture, and she smirked. “Cute. But if this is to be a contest of insults, you’re woefully outmatched.”

They circled around the street, opposite like in a sparring circle. Her opponent did a trick with his knife, flipping it around the back of his hand and catching it again. There was something uniform about his clothes. It was all the same shade of black, matching styles, like they had been made as one.

“Where’s the Dunmer man?” She asked. No response. “I assume you’ve seen him. Tall, skinny. Long ears. Lives just around the—whoa!”

Tal leapt back, just missing the incoming dagger aimed at her gut. Almost tripped dodging another jab, just barely knocked the third incoming blow away. The blades clanged together, the echo dying in the cramped alley. The Khajiit kept coming, fast, trying to break through past the reach of Nammu. Tal kept him at the end of the sword, knocking aside that dark knife as it came towards her.

“Come on…” she seethed, panting now. It was an effort just to hold her sword. Ancestors, she was rusty.

They broke apart, a moment to catch some air. Talrose saw more blood had smeared the street, clumsy brushstrokes. As she straightened her stance, bringing Nammu back up, she watched her opponent moving. It was just a hunch but…there it was again. A little flinch, a grimace.

He was injured, and not by her hand.

The Khajiit jumped to her left with shocking speed for a cat his size. Talrose swiveled, trying to get her sword around in time, and was struck across with face with a ferocious punch. Burning pain lashed her face and she screamed, grabbing her cheek. Blood flowed through her fingers. The Khajiit wiped his claws on his robes and lunged for her again.

Tal ducked, struck a leg straight out to trip him. He tumbled, rolled and was back on his feet on her other side. She made a pained swing for him, but struck the side of a building instead, the impact rattling her arm. The vision in her right eye was blurry red, tears streaming from her eye to flush out the blood. When she could see again, her opponent was gone. She backed up to a sodden old wall, watching. Listening.

A shimmer, like a curved mirror, warped the corner of the building across from her.

“There you are,” she hissed. She took one hand off Nammu, pulled back as if for a punch, but didn’t clench her fist. Instead, hot air steamed from her fingers. A pop, a flash of light. Tal thrust her hand out and threw a roiling ball of fire, whipped it right across the street where it burst apart against the mossy wall of the apartment.

“Whew!” She waggled her stinging hand, dusting some ash out. “Talk about rusty.”

In the smoke, she saw the figure of the Khajiit, shifting through the smoke like a wraith, a relief of fresh air. She grasped Nammu with both hands again, brandishing the flat before her nose. This one was aggressive. He was going to jump her as soon as he realized what her trick was.

The smog began to fall, but she saw it—a swift pull of smoke in her direction. Tal made a sweeping horizontal cut, but it fell through nothing.

Another punch struck her on the side of the neck, so hard it knocked her off her feet. Tal caught herself on her sword arm, the stone scraping her skin. She wheezed, clutching her throat with her other hand. It was wet. When she pulled her hand back, it was slick with fresh blood. Then it began to pour down her chest, dribbling from her chin. Tal whimpered and fumbled off her shawl, pressed it to her throat. Hot liquid seeped through the thin wool.

“You should have stuck to insults.” The Khajiit’s voice was a victorious hiss behind her. Muted boot steps approached. “Meddling cur.”

Tal twisted around, used both hands to throw one desperate jab at him with her sword, dropping to her back. The blade found soft purchase, finally, a few mere inches sinking into his side. He howled with pain, stumbling back. Nammu slipped out of her grasp, hitting the pavement with the crash. While the Khajiit was reeling, she scrambled to her feet and ran.

Tunneling down the street, she heard him roar with fury a block behind her, and the wild fear pushed her harder. She hit a corner, clawed the wood and changed direction. It was a dark maze, the houses creating dead ends, clogged with old sailing equipment, homes destroyed by a typhoon, or simply poor construction. She wiped her wrist across her right eye, trying to wipe it clean, but only smeared more red into her vision. Tal slipped, dropped to her knees, kept running. The blood from her throat had drenched the clothes on her side, heavy and clinging to her skin, mingling with her sweat. Clammy from the fading thrill of her fight, beading on her forehead.

A mountain of neglected barrels blocked the street, as tall as she was. She was close to fresh air now. It was sunnier, and she could taste the salt breeze. Shooting a glance back, Tal began to climb, metal fastenings prinking her bare feet. The ascent was awkward, three-limbed, with one hand still clamped around her oozing neck. Just as she reached the top of the stack, a hand grasped her foot and pulled.

“ _B’vehk_!” She cried, fingers screaming at the effort to keep from being yanked to the ground. An agonized glance over her shoulder caught her a glimpse of odd-colored eyes. The Khajiit had found her. Long, translucent claws curled into her calf.

“Too slow.” He grinned, displaying pearly fangs.

Tal reached back, bracing herself with her last free limb, her foot, to try and tear his fingers off of her. She dug her nails into his knuckles, prying them away. There was a ring on one finger, a glossy band of ebony, almost the exact shade of black as his fur.

Something cracked under them, dropping them closer to the street by a few inches. The Khajiit paused, and Tal took the opportunity to rip his hand off of her leg. He snarled, grabbed for her again. A barrel crunched, groaned, and shattered. The whole mountain of old wood lurched, jolting them. The Khajiit missed his grab, scoring the back of her leg with his claws as he went rolling backward. An avalanche of rotted wood, termites, iron hoops, and rusted fastenings dumped her onto the street, on the harbor side. Talrose found, in her hand, the black ring, torn right from the finger of the Khajiit.

She didn’t look back at her pursuer, just got up and took off again, limping now. Dizziness clouded her head. It was getting harder to move, like she was running through water. Her legs weren’t going as fast as she was telling them to. Breathing was hard, a task all its own, each ragged breath tearing her lungs.

When she stumbled out into the main harbor road, the sunlight blinded her. People were chattering nearby, gulls squawking above her. She shielded her eyes with the fist holding the ring. Hands grabbed her shoulders and she fought them away, shouting incoherently.

“Stop, stop! By the Nine…” A voice she didn’t know, a woman. Thank the ancestors. Tal slumped, sliding to her knees, giving in to the fatigue. The ground welcomed her, no longer slimy and mossy but clean, smooth cobble.

“Are you all right?”

“What’s going on?” Another voice. More than two, all mingling together.

“She’s hurt—just hold on, we’re getting help!”

“Hey, you, help! Someone’s been hurt!”

Blissful sleep was coming. Talrose let herself sink, down into dark water. Into silence.

* * *

Talrose opened her eyes.

A stone ceiling. How boring.

It stank like a wine cellar, wherever she was. Musty and damp. She was in a bed, under white cotton covers. Bandages gripped her neck, leg, face. She began to turn her head but stopped sharply, a lance of pain jolting up her neck, from collar to jaw. She lifted a wrapped hand, each movement grinding, pulling under her skin, aching. She prodded her face, felt up to the edge of her left ear—or, where her ear used to be. It was an old wound, not a result of her attack. Only a knobby ridge of ruined flesh remained, shorter than a human’s. What was it about her left side getting all the bad luck? 

Everything started coming back, a flood of memories more painful than any of her physical injuries. Her blood-spattered home. The Khajiit. Mithel. Gone. Missing, dead, she didn’t know.

All she had sacrificed, struggled for, all of it was gone with him. It had always been the two of them against the world. Now her world was nothing. Dust. A boring stone ceiling.

Tears boiled in her eyes. At first she resisted, but the grief came up like a wave, heavy and dark and she wept. Painful, raspy sobs that fell flat in the dingy room. It hurt to cry, burned her throat and strained the injury on her neck, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried. The tears soaked into the bandage on the right side of her face, dripped off the other side into her pillow. She cried until there was nothing left, until she was hiccupping and dry.

As she laid still, basking in the miserable silence around her, something returned to the space that her sorrow had just vacated. Something hotter, more comforting. A familiar, smooth, still sensation. It dried her eyes and brought her pulse up to a vigorous tempo. Tal welcomed it as an old friend, returning after a long, long time away.

Rage.

A strange calm came over her, almost relaxation. Talrose flipped her blanket off and sat on the edge of the bed. A robe like a potato sack hung off her skinny body. Each time she moved, a fresh barrage of pain rattled through her, but she embraced it. Took the pain to the pool of rage in her gut like kindling to a fire. She gathered her long, black hair into a messy knot and hid her bad ear with it.

The room was a cramped den with another bed across from hers. Shelves of colorful glass bottles, tied bunches of herbs, and pots of mossy greens crowded the walls. Tapestries adorned the walls, embroidered with white lotuses. A fog of incense hung at the ceiling, like clouds. A single window of stained glass filtered in liquid morning light, wobbling pinks and blues.

There was a bedside table next to her. On it, two pearls on lengths of leather, crusted with dry blood, and her stained coin purse. The sheath for Nammu rested against the table, but there was no blade. The black ring she had stolen from the Khajiit was there.

Tal picked up the ring, observing it between her fingers. It was an elegant band, plain black stone that seemed to absorb the light. It was too big to fit on any of her fingers.

“You’re no wedding ring.” She muttered. Her voice surprised her. A husky rattle, wind through reeds, unused.

The single door to the room opened and let in an Imperial woman. She was young, much younger than Tal. Blond, straight hair and rosy cheeks. Cute. “Gods be praised, you’re awake!”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the chapel of Dibella, in Anvil. You were brought here by some concerned locals, grievously wounded. That wound on your neck, in particular! If it had been any deeper—wait, wait!”

Talrose staggered to her feet, bracing herself on the table. From there, she grabbed the pearls off the bedside table and tied them back around her neck, slung Nammu’s sheath over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, I’m quite averse to religion. I’ll break out in a rash if I’m here any longer.”

The other woman laughed nervously. “Well, if that were true, I’m sure it would have happened sooner. You’ve been here for three weeks.”

Talrose turned around. “What?”

“Well, almost three. A touch short. Those injuries were extremely serious.” The priestess clasped her hands together. “But you made a divine recovery, Dibella be praised.”

Three weeks. So, it was…Sun’s Height now. Which meant she was three weeks behind trying to find Mithel, and the Khajiit was three weeks ahead. Or maybe Mithel was already dead. Tal grabbed hold of the warm, smooth rage inside her and let it carry her across the room to the door.

“Wait, you shouldn’t be moving around so soon!” The woman hurried after her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find my brother,” she said, and shoved open the door.


	3. Anvil: Your Sister, Sleep-Talking

It was a long walk back to her house. The sun was blisteringly hot. High summer was a lot higher in Cyrodiil than Morrowind, and even ten years later Tal had never gotten used to it.

She was burning, inside and out. Each step was a chain reaction of pain, rolling up from her torn leg, rattling all her bruises and bumps. Deeper, anger burned her within, a single hot coal that weighed her down and balanced her. It helped her reach the harborside.

Fresh salt air greeted her, a momentary balm for her sun-soaked skin. She took in the sight of the fishhook bay, the sailors milling about, the vendors selling imported goods. Ships creaking in the water. It would have made her happy, not long ago, to be back in familiar territory. But that same happiness was out of reach now, buried away. When she tried to think about it, break into it, it was hard and cold like a stone.

It didn’t take long her long to get home from there. Just a few blocks in and one block back, amongst the slumped mess of rotting apartments. She eyed the door to her home, but didn’t go in quite yet.

A neighbor was leaning against his house, smoking. J’orad, an old sailor who mostly just traded stories with her at the Flowing Bowl. A Khajiit, golden blond, but going white. When he saw her approach, he coughed on his pipe.

“Talrose!” He waved away the smoke. “You live!”

“Not for lack of trying.” She held out her hand, and the man passed her his pipe. The first hit was bliss, spicy and hot, and she exhaled slowly, savoring it.

J’orad took back his pipe, scratching his tangled, greying chops. “This one heard you bumped into some trouble. Smelled it, too.” He jerked his thumb at the door to her house. “Another Khajiit, yes. Could barely smell anything over all the blood. You know him?”

“We’re acquainted,” Tal said. “What else?”

“Nothing.” He grunted. “J’orad went back to sleep. Ask Droarra, yes. She was awake.”

Droarra was his wife, whom Talrose had met very few times in the years she had lived there. Tal looked at her house again. “Fine. Where is she?”

“Who knows?” He laughed. “Could be shopping, yes. Check the waterfront.”

“Thanks.” Talrose considered the door to her house again, a tickle of anticipation wiggling in her stomach, and turned away. There was time for that later. First, Droarra.

When she got back out on the waterfront, she took a moment to rest, agonizingly lowering herself down to dangle her feet over the boardwalk. She set Nammu’s sheath beside her and leaned over to look past her knees at the sloshing water below. A wight stared back. Sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks. A fat clump of white bandaging clung to her throat and face like a parasite. She leaned back. No need to damage her morale by looking at her foul reflection.

An itch tickled the back of her neck. The feeling of being watching. She scanned the waterfront. An Imperial pirate looked her over, wary as he passed. A Redguard woman glanced at her from where she was purchasing imported fruit. A chuckling gang of Argonian sailors, a stumbling drunk.

“Pardon me,” A thin voice above her. Talrose shielded her eyes and squinted up.

An elderly woman was over her, a Breton or Imperial or some such human. Gray hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head, her face sagging and creased with wrinkles. Sprightly eyes beamed at her under wispy brows. A woven basket covered with a quilted blanket hung around her elbow.

Tal twisted a little to face her, grimacing. “What is it, _ald_?”

“I couldn’t help but notice how sad you looked, young lady.” She said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sad.” She replied. “And I’m not young anymore, either.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” The old woman laughed. “Elves! Why, you must be my age!”

“Well, no, but…” Tal frowned, braced an elbow on her knee. “Do you need something?”

“Here, dear,” the woman handed her the basket around her elbow. “I bought some honey cakes for my grandson, but I think you need them more.”

“What? No, I don’t want…” The basket was pushed into her hands. “Hey, wait!”

Before she could object, the woman had shuffled off down the waterfront. Talrose looked down at the basket. It was oblong in shape, made from driftwood. It was heavy, much heavier than she’d expected. The blanket on top was made from rough wool, blue and green and red. The patterns were complex, strange. It reminded her of the magical diagrams she had studied at home.

Tal looked down the street, but the woman was long gone. She shook her head. “Humans...”

She peeled away the blanket. Sitting there, on top of a bed of sticky rolls, was a plain iron dagger. Fresh crimson blood was leaking off of it, soaking into the bread underneath.

“ _B’vehk_!” She cursed and shoved it away like it was a snake. The basket dumped over, spilling its contents across the street.

Crumpled on the ground where it had been discarded, the blanket began to glow. Talrose scrambled up and backed away from it. The fabric lit as though on fire, white-hot, and as she watched, shriveled up into nothing but a glowing pit. And then, exploded.

Tal flinched, but nothing flew at her, no debris or fire. Only a huge _BANG!_ that echoed across the water, around the bowl of the waterfront. It bounced back and forth, _BANG, Bang, bang._ It stopped the chatter and foot traffic around her. They probably heard it in Summerset. Her ears were ringing. Talrose looked around, at all the curious, fearful stares she was drawing. In the uneasy silence, she heard a rhythmic crunching of metal approaching.

“You, stop right there!” A guard in plate armor shoved through the onlooking crowd, pointing at her. He was out of breath, sword already drawn.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Great.”

Dealings with the guards was always in the rotation for her weekly antics, whether it was running from them or persuading them out of a citation for public intoxication. They had about as much collective brain matter as an oyster. And as entertaining as it usually was to push their buttons, they certainly didn’t seem to be in a joking mood. A full patrol swarmed in, about six men, backing the crowd away. Talrose kept her chin up, watching the bristling sword tips center towards her.

The first guard stepped towards her, assessing the situation. Beady eyes tracked the upturned basket, the rolls, the bleeding knife at her feet. Tal recognized him. Audas Andellus, the head of the port authority. His blockish face had too-small features, a squashed nose and a tight, white line for a mouth. An attempt to grow a beard made his face look dirty.

“Talrose Gatthen.” He grunted. “Should have known you would have something to do with this.”

“Captain Andellus,” Tal cocked her head, tweaking her neck injury as she did so. “What brings you out of the office? Sale at the baker’s?”

He flashed her a humorless smile. “Serving the public good, actually. I must say, I have been waiting for this opportunity to present itself.” He flagged two fingers her direction.

Three guards broke from the circle around her. Two grabbed her shoulders with hard steel hands and shoved her to her knees, holding her hard to the ground. Pain stretched across her gouged calf. The third guard twisted her arms around behind her back and clamped cold iron cuffs around her wrists.

“I think this is a bit of an overreaction, Andellus.” She said, twisting her shoulders. “What is it this time? Loitering whilst Dunmer?”

Andellus advanced, looking down at her with too much satisfaction for her liking. “You’re under arrest for murder, Gatthen.”

“ _What?”_ Tal choked back a laugh. “You must be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

She pulled against her restraints. “I haven’t murdered anyone. Someone almost murdered _me_. I’ve been on the streets for all of three hours!”

“You have the murder weapon. You were near the scene of the crime. You knew the victim and had motive to kill.” Andellus leaned in and she recoiled from his foul breath. “You’ll never be on the streets again.” He jerked his head. “Take her.”

The guards wrenched her to her feet, hauling her away under the armpits. 

“Andellus!” She screamed. “Let me go!” Her bare feet scraped and scrambled against the street as she tried to dig her heels in. She felt heat burning in her palms behind her, fury manifesting.

“Suppress her magicka!” He commanded. “She’s casting a spell!”

“I’ll suppress your fucking life!” Tal howled, kicking sideways at one of the guards holding her. “ _’Kaoc!_ Get off of me!”

A pop from behind her as a weak fireball fired off somewhere without direction, rousing a murmur from the onlooking crowd. Rope was tied around her hands, binding them into a hard, numb ball. Andellus came around in front of her and, smirking, threw a sack over her head.

* * *

_Seventeen years ago._

Talrose cracked open an oyster.

She ran the knife along the bottom of the shell, cutting the delicate tongue of meat away. It was her little pleasure—a hidden time away from Mother and Father. A pile of discarded shells accompanied her on the black sand beach where she sat. A basket of more shellfish and kelp sat before her, a banquet just for her.

A gentle, warm rain was rolling in, bringing the acrid sting of smoke with it. Red Mountain had been restless recently. Mother insisted it was nothing, but Tal could tell she wasn’t convinced.

So she enjoyed the water, the sea, the rain. She opened another oyster, idly twisting the shell off, watching the gray foam of the sea roll in. Oysters weren’t her favorite, but it wasn’t the texture she loved, or the taste of the sea. It was the freedom. When she went diving, she could be gone as long as she wanted, so long as she came back with food for the family. Which meant that she could steal some time to herself, time where she didn’t need to spoon watered-down scrib jelly into Father’s mouth.

Tal sucked the oyster out of its rough, briny shell, and bit straight down onto a rock. She grunted and spat it out, rubbing her tooth. A trace of blood on her thumb. “Ow…”

It dropped with a _splat_ onto the sand. She poked the pale blob, pushing aside the mucus-y flesh to find the insulting party. Staring in awe, Tal twisted not one, but _two_ pearls out of the rejected mush. They were no bigger than her pinkie nail. Misshapen, dappled with iridescent silver, green, purple. She turned them over in her palm, holding them up to the light to reveal fresh colors, shifting waves on their surface.

“What’s that?”

“Ah!” Tal clenched her fist around her prize and spun around. Mithel grinned, backing up from where he had been peering over her shoulder. “You little fetcher. What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you.” He said. “Mother is, at least.”

“Well, she can wait. I need to do another dive.”

He sat down in front of her, gangly as a cliff racer, elbows and knees poking every which way. A weak attempt at a moustache fuzzed his upper lip. His transition into manhood was doing him no blessings. “I’ll tell her you’re busy if you show me what you found.”

“No, it’s mine.”

“Don’t be a baby, just show me.”

Tal reluctantly opened her fist. Mithel pulled her hand in to get a better look, ignoring her protests. “Ooh…these are amazing!”

“I bit into one when I was eating.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows at her and laughed. “That’s perfect. Can I have one?”

“No—hey!” She made a grab for him when he plucked one of the pearls out of her palm and scrambled back. “Give that back!”

Talrose got to her feet and advanced on him. Her brother danced back, into the glossy sand that had just been washed smooth by a wave.

“Come on, we both know you won’t sell them. Just let me keep it.” He clapped his palms together. “I beg you, O Wise One.”

“Ancestors, enough,” she waved her hand. A mere seven years separated them, but he acted like such a child, sometimes. “Keep it, then.”

He pumped his fist in victory, prize in hand. “Yes! This will go right towards my crippling skooma addiction.”

“Ha, ha,” she rolled her eyes.

Mithel rolled his eyes too, lolling his whole head around to mock her attitude. “ _B’vehk_ , can’t you take a joke?” He walked back up to her and handed the pearl back. “You found them. Keep them. I’ll tell Mother you’ll be back before sundown.”

He grabbed an oyster from her stash as he left, cracking it with her knife and tossing the blade back in the sand. Tal crossed her arms as she watched him strut away. In the distance, Red Mountain leaked a thin trail of black smoke into the overcast sky.

“What, that’s it?” She asked. “You don’t want one?”

Mithel shrugged, wheeling around to walk backwards into the tall swamp grasses at the edge of the beach. “No, not really. I would only lose it.”

* * *

Talrose held her twin necklaces in her hand, rubbing the pearls with the edge of her shirt. Blood was still dried into all the little crevices. Hers, Mithel’s, the Khajiit’s. All three of them mixed together. Black lines cutting through the lustrous shine.

She was tucked up in the corner of her cell, knees to her chest. The cell boasted such luxuries as: a pile of roach-infested straw to sleep on, a rustic stone floor, and a bucket where she could relieve herself. That was just about it as far as amenities went. They had confiscated Nammu’s sheath, as well as her coin purse, with the Khajiit’s ring inside. The necklaces she had been able to hide, or perhaps they had simply gone unnoticed.

Jail had given her time to think. The Khajiit was her key. If anyone knew where Mithel was, he did. In her head, Tal had begun calling him Molkhun, the word for blood in her tongue.

In the flickering light, in the silence, she nurtured the rage inside of her. With each breath, it steadied her. Grew from a simple hot coal to a north star within her, hot and heavy. It wasn’t the kind of anger that she was familiar with, the kind that got her into fights with angry Nords. This was something else, bigger than herself at times. A foreign beast with whom she now shared her body. When she closed her eyes, she imagined driving her fingers through Molkhun’s odd-colored eyes. Imagined spearing him with Nammu, breaking his fingers one by one until she had the truth. Until she had her brother back.

Such thoughts would have once disturbed her. Now she found a strange comfort in them. Just as she found a strange comfort in the pain that still choked her, still pulled at her face and her leg, it was a dark relief to imagine inflicting those same injuries on her enemy.

“Molkhun.” She muttered to her hands. Blood. A payment she would return in full plus interest.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice cracked into her dark fantasies. “Someone there?”

Tal waited to respond. “I’m here.”

“Who’s that?”

“Does it matter?”

A chuckle. “I guess not. You’re my neighbor, right? I heard those bloody guards dump you in here couple days ago. My name’s Sybienne. Doesn’t do me much good in here, though.”

Talrose crawled to the barred cell door and leaned back against the wall. The cells across the hall from her were empty, nothing but rats and moldering straw. The ones directly adjacent were impossible to see into. At one end of the hall, a bored guard was flipping through a book.

“Not much good in here at all.” Tal said.

“You’re right about that. What’s your name?”

“Told you already, it doesn’t matter.” She focused on the pearls, still cleaning, but now with her one good ear perked up. “Call me whatever you want.”

“Hmm…” Sybienne hummed. “I’ll think of something. Gotta get to know you first.”

“What, you think this is a tavern? We aren’t here to get to know each other.”

“Yes! My tavern, my lavatory, my bedroom, my dressing room. I’ve got my larder over there, and a cooking fire in the corner.”

Tal fought a smile. “Well, I have my own hot spring back here.”

“Ooh!” The other woman hissed in jealousy. “Did you bed a guard for that one?”

“One better. Got down on my knees for the captain of the port authority.”

“You harlot.”

They laughed, but Tal found no joy in it. It felt like a veneer, hiding the boiling emotions in her stomach. Not happiness, just an imitation of it.

“What are you in here for, Miss Argonian Maid?” Sybienne asked.

“Apparently I killed someone. Which is funny, because I didn’t.” Tal said. She chewed her cheek. “I don’t even know who it is they claim I murdered.”

“I’m sorry about that. As for myself, I was caught skimming profits from my friend’s business. Not as intriguing as murder, alleged or not.” She lowered her voice. “But don’t worry. I have a plan.”

The door at the end of the hall opened, shooting a beam of golden light down the hall. Tal craned her neck to watch the exit. A new guard entered, a brick of a man with a limp, who was carrying a tray of food. The guard who had been sitting got up and tossed her book down on her seat. The book guard drew her sword and knocked the flat against the wall, the crashing steel shattered the peaceful quiet.

“Back up! Back up!” She snapped, banging her sword. “Get to the backs of your cells if you want to eat!”

Talrose scooched back on her arse, shuffling to the back wall of her cell. The guards dropped a tray next door, at Sybienne’s cell. She could smell the change in the air, the steam from whatever slop had been doled out to them. She waited, rubbing her pearls, until they dropped her meal at the base of the door. They used a key to unlock the swinging hatch and pushed the tray in.

“No wine?” Tal asked.

The limping guard sneered at her. “Come see for yourself.”

Keeping her eyes on him, or at least the one still not under bandaging, Tal crawled over to her dinner. Instead of the usual watery oats or mealy red apple, there was a chunk of hard bread, mottled with white and green fuzz. The only other item was a glass of water. Gnats and dust drifted across the surface.

“What is this?” Tal held up the bread. It crumbled in her grasp. “This isn’t food!”

“Sure it is,” the guard said. “Specialty dinner, just for you. Courtesy of Captain Andellus.”

“Whoa!” The reading guard laughed, jumping back when Tal hurled the bread through the bars at them. “Told you.”

“Hope you aren’t expecting a last meal.” The limping guard said, turning away. “Have a good night!”

“You fetching bastard! Tell that oozing netch to face me himself!” Tal smashed her tray against the door until the flimsy wood broke apart. She screamed, rattling the bars in her hands. “ _N’wah!_ Fetching arse!”

The guards switched shifts, some random coming to replace the guard who had been reading, and the door slammed shut. Talrose paced her cell, seething. She grabbed the clay cup of dingy water and whipped it against the wall. It burst apart with a wonderful shatter, which made her feel only marginally better. That slimy fetcher would do anything to make her life a living nightmare. Who knew how long she would await execution? Probably only once he had finished getting his sick kicks out of torturing her, or until she died of starvation.

“Hey,” Sybienne’s voice. “You okay?”

“Do I _sound_ like I am _f_ …” Tal pressed her fingers to her temples. “No. No, I am not okay.”

“I’ve got some extra food here. Come on, I can share.”

Tal knelt at the corner, against the wall they shared and the barred door. A skinny, pale hand stretched across the gap between their cells, brandishing a knob of cheese.

She nodded her hand. “Quick, take it before the guard sees.”

Talrose squeezed her hand through the bars, face pressed to the wall, and took the food from her. She observed the little lump of cheese, smaller than the palm of her hand, greasy from being at room temperature. It reminded her of scuttle, from back home. The cheese had almost no flavor but for a mild saltiness, and was gone in two bites.

“Thanks,” she muttered, wiping her hand on her prison-standard-issue trousers.

“My pleasure,” Sybienne said. “We can help each other here, you know. I have a plan to get out, but I’m…not very athletic. You seem like you’re willing to get your hands dirty, though, if push came to shove. Think you can do that?”

Talrose looked down at her hands, at the filth under her nails. Her little stunt with the fireball during her arrest had burned her palms raw and red. A rookie mistake, a loss of control. She wrapped her fingers into fists, gripping the hot pain that bloomed there.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it controversial to use the relatively modern "fuck" in an elder scrolls setting? perhaps. but as much as i love all of the colorful race-original curses (n'wah being of course the uncontested goat), there's something about the word 'fuck' that transcends language barriers. i feel like all fantasy universes should use 'fuck'. frodo should have been allowed to say fuck. 
> 
> anyway thanks for reaching the end of the chapter, more on the way, let me know what you think


	4. Anvil: Rosebush

The world became very small.

It was the cell. Three walls of slimy brick, one wall of iron bars. Her bed of straw was damp and reeked of mold. Every day, the guards came in the morning to remove her tray of food, sometimes uneaten, and her latrine bucket.

At first, she attempted to maintain her dignity. Combed her fingers through her hair, tried to keep the dirt from her face. Scrubbed her nails on her shirt whenever they became dirty. It didn’t take long for that desire to wilt away. The next few weeks she spent cowered in the corner of her cell.

The apathy of the guards stung her, and she came to reject action and speech. It was simpler that way.

Breakfast was always the same: a single hard biscuit and a cup of water. The prison larder must be full of sawdust because that was what it tasted like. Dinner was different. Sometimes a dry half breast of chicken, sometimes a bowl of “soup”, a generous term for water and wilted celery.

One day, her food tray was older than usual. Worn and dry. A piece of it broke off, about as long as her hand, a triangular shard.

The guards didn’t notice it when they came to collect the next morning. Too many damaged trays to keep track of.

And Sybienne began to form a plan.

She took the shard of wood to the cobblestones, grinding the edges against the stone. The first time, it didn’t work: the wood snapped. But she had endless opportunity. When she got a better tray, stronger wood, she purposefully cracked a piece from it. This one was larger, sturdier, and held up to the stone.

She only sharpened it at night. The midnight shift guard always fell asleep, and she could work without fear of being caught.

The world became even smaller.

It slowed down, narrowed in to just the shard of wood, the stone, the night. Sybienne didn’t care if it didn’t work in the end. In fact, she didn’t even know what she would do with it if she got the chance. All she cared about was getting it nice and sharp. Her day became scheduled around it. Small-time thieves came and went in the cells around her, mocking, heckling, lecherous, but always she ended up alone again. Alone with her little shard of wood.

Until she wasn’t.

* * *

Talrose crossed her legs, placing her hands on her knees. She exhaled through her nose and shut her eyes. Focused on her breathing, on releasing the tension from her face. Long ago, she had no trouble with her meditation. Now, when she tried to let her mind drift and relax, it was…entangled. Caught in a web of thoughts too convoluted to break. She tried to picture the ocean, and match her breathing with imaginary waves washing in and out. Instead, when she closed her eyes, she saw Mithel’s face. Grinning at her, brow furrowed over some old book.

She broke her posture to clasp her hand over her eyes. No. No more tears.

In the cell next to her, she heard loud coughing. Tal lifted her head. “Hey. You all right in there?”

“Yes,” Sybienne’s voice was soft and wheezing. “Just fine…”

The hacking started up again, stronger now, honking and gasping. Talrose stood and tried to look left, at the adjacent cell, but of course couldn’t. “Hey! Are you sure you’re all right?” This time, there was no response from the other woman. The horrid coughing continued.

“Keep it down over there!” The guard at the end of the hall snapped.

“I think she’s sick!” Tal stuck an arm outside her cell and waved. “Something’s wrong with her!”

“What?” Armor rustled as the guard stood and marched down the hall towards them. She banged a hand on the door to Sybienne’s cell. “Prisoner! Can you hear me?”

The coughing was getting quieter, but not in a good way. It was becoming a tighter, more desperate sound. The guard shifted on her feet, glanced at the door.

“Let me help her. Hey!” Talrose snapped her fingers and the guard looked at her. She had bright blue eyes. “I know magic. I can help her!”

“Just…” Blue Eyes chewed her lip. “I’m going to go get the resident healer.”

“How long will that take?” Tal slapped the bars. “Come on! Put a sword at my back if that’s what you need! Just let me over there!”

The guard was searching the corridor for help, hoping for another guard to miraculously help her out of the moral quandary she was in. But Talrose knew that they had just changed shifts twenty minutes ago, and she wasn’t about to be relieved for another few hours. Sybienne had gone quiet, her coughing now only a tight hiccupping. The guard cursed and fumbled the keys from her belt.

“You go right in there and heal her,” she said. The keys rattled nervously, and Sybienne’s cell opened with a wispy creak. Then she turned on Tal’s door. “Don’t think about trying anything funny.”

The key clicked in the lock, and Tal’s door swung open. She held her hands up, shuffling past the guard, who now had her sword trained on her.

Sybienne’s cell was a perfect replica of Talrose’s next door. It was odd seeing that there was a real person attached to the voice she had been chatting with, the hand she had seen. But there she was, laying on the floor. She was a petite Breton, long brown hair lank with grease. Tal rushed to her side, pushing her onto her back.

Healing wasn’t her strong suit. Tal pulled the only spell she knew into her hand, feeling the warmth tickle her wrist, run up through her fingers. She tasted honey. She passed her hand across Sybienne’s chest, making circles of golden light.

It might have worked if something was actually wrong.

Sybienne’s hand pushed against Tal’s, on the side more hidden from the guard. A hard piece of wood was pressed into her palm. Tal could feel a sharp edge digging into her skin.

“What’s the hold up?” The guard demanded. “Hurry up!”

“I-I don’t know,” Tal stammered. “She’s not responding. Maybe you should call the resident healer.”

“Fine! Now, get out of there. Slow!”

Talrose did as she was told, hands down and away from her body. Blue Eyes kept the sword on her. She glanced nervously at the door. There was a gap between her helmet and her chestplate. Talrose flexed her clammy hand around the wooden shiv. It wasn’t _that_ sharp—she would have to be fast, very fast.

She only had one shot.

* * *

_Seventeen years ago._

“Oh, don’t mess it up,” Mithel whispered over her shoulder. “Careful now…carefully…”

Talrose froze, her face inches from her hands, where one of the pearls was pinched between her fingers. A tiny iron dowel was in her other hand, which she was using to drill through the little gem. “Your breath smells like moldy saltrice.”

He puffed air into his hand and smelled it. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.” She continued her task, rolling the dowel between her fingers. Grey dust piled out of the hole she was creating in the pearl.

Mithel came around in front of her, squatting in front of her working hands. The flickering light of their single fish-oil lamp danced on his face. “You could make a living on this, you know. Finding treasure, cleaning it up to sell to some House noble in Balmora.”

“Hm.” She grunted. “Don’t be stupid. You know I can’t.”

He chewed his cheek, studying her face for a moment. “I know.”

A twist of guilt made Tal pause in her work, and offer him a weak smile. “It’s a nice thought.”

The hut that they called home was a sort of rounded cone, stuck in a hillside of black volcanic rock. The Narrow Sea was on their doorstep, their matron and benefactor. The beach where she had found the pearls was just a little way down the shore, half hidden in encroaching swamps. It was Tal’s duty to go diving, to find any food, fish, or valuables she could. Mother would then boil them in a soup, make them into clothes, or take them to the city and sell them.

She couldn’t ever find the pearls.

The dowel broke through the pearl, and they both exclaimed at it. “There you go!” Mithel said.

“Shh!” Tal hissed. She replaced the dowel with a short length of twine, pushing the end through the fresh hole, and twisting it tight. Through that loop, then, she threaded a lace of leather, tied it, and then held her completed project aloft: a necklace.

“ _Muthsera_ , you’ve outdone yourself,” Mithel said.

“Here,” Talrose held it out. “Take this one. I’ll make mine tomorrow. We’ve already been up too late.”

Above them, the floor creaked. They were in the lowest floor of their home, the cool, damp basement. Both of them stopped, waiting. Then, another creak.

Mithel shot to his feet, fumbling the necklace over his big ears and tucking it into his shirt. He went to the stairs and poked his head around, keeping an eye out. Talrose wrapped everything—the pearl, the dowel, the twine—in a cloth, tied and ran to her hiding spot. It was a raised tile, behind the pile of storage crates under the stairs, in the dark alcove. She lifted the tile with her nails, exposing a hole underneath. Tal crammed the bag in, on top of a small pouch of gold. Her treasury.

“Talranvase, what are you doing down there?” Their mother’s voice carried as clear as water through the house, sending a panicky chill up Tal’s spine.

“She’s coming!” Mithel hissed.

“I can hear that!” She pressed the tile back down and climbed back over the crates to where Mithel was standing, backed away from the stairs. Tal stuck her arm out, pushing him behind her and putting herself between him and the stairs.

A long shadow was thrown across the room.

Daromene Gatthen was a woman of imperious stature. At all times, her black hair was tied back in a glossy bun. A black robe, folded over itself and tied around the waist, made her into a solid dark pillar. She remained on the final step of the staircase, towering over them. She clasped one hand over the other.

“What are you two doing down here at this hour?” She asked.

“Nothing.” Tal said.

“Nothing?” Daromene repeated. Narrow black eyes bored into her. “That’s interesting. Because I could have sworn that you two have been down here for the last couple of hours, unless my hearing is going. I don’t think it is, do you?”

“No, Mother.” Both of them said.

“Now then. I will ask again. And this time, I had better hear something better than _nothing_.”

Mithel opened his mouth, but Tal nudged him with her foot and said, “I was showing Mithel how to do a handstand.”

“Er, yes,” he said. “Tal’s the fit one, I just wanted to see how she does it.”

Daromene smiled. “Mithel. Would you like to show me what you’ve learned from your sister?”

Mithel backed up a few steps, raised his hands and cartwheeled over, almost pitching over completely. His bare feet waved in the air, ponytail dragging on the floor. After a moment of teetering dangerously, his skinny arms shaking from the effort, he dropped into a crouch and stood back up.

Their mother continued to smile. “Very nice, Mithel. You can go to bed, now.”

“But…”

“Now.”

Mithel glanced over his shoulder at Tal, brows pinched with worry, but disappeared up the stairs. There was no room for argument. Once his footsteps had faded away, Daromene stepped down that last stair so she was level with Talrose. The light of the fish-oil lamp at their feet lit her strong features from underneath, casting contorted shadows. Tal swallowed tightly and held her ground as she approached.

“I’m so disappointed in you, Talranvase,” she said. “I thought we had moved beyond this childish rebellious phase. But it seems that you’re determined to act out.” She sighed. “Well, come along, then.”

Daromene turned and headed back up the stairs. After a moment of hesitation, Talrose followed.

* * *

She took one long step, leaning in around the distracted tip of the sword. Blue Eyes turned, too late. Talrose wrapped her entire arm around her head, an embrace almost intimate, pulling the guard close against her. She could hear her panting, some word almost forming at her lips. Then Tal raised her other hand high and drove the wooden shiv through the gap of her armor, plunging it into the sinew of her neck.

Blue Eyes flailed wildly, her cry more of a choked gasp. Armored fingers clawed at her, trying to reach around her back. Talrose was nearly piggybacking her, pressing her down into the stone floor, dodging the woman’s weak attempts at pulling on her hair. Gritting her teeth, Tal screwed her nails into the slippery end of the shiv that jutted out from the guard’s neck like a bad thorn, and pulled. Blood broke forth like a black flood, silently bubbling out and pouring across the floor.

Tal kept her eyes on the guard, who was now shivering on the ground. When she licked her lips, she tasted wet metal. She fought back a bubble of nausea.

Somewhere in the fabric of the world, a dark ripple. Talrose felt it, a chill that raised the hairs on her arms. The sensation of being watched.

“By the Nine…” Sybienne was standing at the door to her cell, very much alive and well. “What are you _doing?!”_

Only when the guard went still, and the gasp of life left her body for good, did Tal finally glance at her fellow prisoner. “I thought that was rather obvious.”

The Breton woman swallowed, her eyes bugging out of her head, locked on the fresh corpse. “It wasn’t—this wasn’t what I…”

“What you planned?” Talrose snapped. She held the shiv up, it and her arm coated in shiny blood. Sybienne flinched as though struck. “What exactly did you hope to achieve with this little scrib-sticker?”

“I don’t know!” She flung up her hands. “Threaten them, maybe?”

“Let’s not forget this was _your_ plan to begin with. You wanted muscle?” She scoffed and tossed the shiv down the hall. “You got what you wanted.”

Tal knelt and rolled the guard’s body over, pulling the sword from its sheath. It was a simple steel shortsword, much shorter than she was used to handling. Nammu had close to two feet on it. She gave it an experimental flip. It would have to do. There was a dagger at her belt, too, which she unclipped and handed to Sybienne.

“Here,” she said. The other woman’s eyes were gliding around the room, dazed. “Hey!”

“Sorry,” Sybienne swallowed and limply accepted the knife.

Talrose stepped up to the other woman and grabbed her by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Up close, it was clear that Tal had overestimated her age by a long shot. The young woman’s green eyes glistened with tears, and she could feel her trembling. But Tal had little sympathy for her. She knew well the terror that gripped her—the harrowing panic that came when one life was pitted against another. It never truly disappeared, no matter how good you were. Tal had merely internalized it. There were things more important now than being afraid.

“Listen carefully,” Tal said. “I can’t kill every guard in this building. We’re going to have to run. You can run, right?” Sybienne nodded. “Good. I can’t carry you. Once you’re out, keep running. Understand?”

“I-I understand.”

“One more time.”

Sybienne took a shuddering breath and met her gaze, a bit steadier now. “I understand.”

“Excellent,” Tal released her chin, leaving a red handprint, and clapped her on the shoulder. “I knew you were smart. Good performance back there, by the way. I can’t believe that actually worked.”

“Thanks.” She mumbled.

Then the door opened.

The hall was cast in a flash of gold candlelight, and closed just as quickly. Talrose jumped to her feet, pushing Sybienne behind her with one arm and brandishing her stolen sword with her other. She expected a guard, a surprise shift change. That would be just her luck. Instead of a guard, however, was someone else.

A hooded man stood before the door. He paused, one hand still on the door.

“Hm.” He said.

“Who the vehk are you?” Tal snapped.

The man ignored her, and attempted to walk past them, but Talrose shifted over, blocking his path. She prodded at his chest with sword, and he stopped. Most of his face was obscured by his hood and the dark of the prison corridor, but she could see the day-old stubble on his chin. She got a bad feeling from him, a familiar prickle of danger. The black robes, the hood…

“Turn your arse around and get the fuck out of here.” She snarled.

The man set one gloved hand on the blade at his chest and simply pushed it aside.

“Excuse me.” He said. His voice was a low, rolling tenor, steady as a rock.

Talrose backed up a step as he pushed past her. At her back, Sybienne whimpered, tugging on her tunic like a child. “We need to leave! We need to leave right now!”

“Shh!” She hissed back.

As they watched, the man went to the fresh corpse of Blue Eyes. He nudged the body with his foot. After a few contemplative seconds, he took a small notebook from somewhere in the mass of black robes and marked something down in it. He circled the body, stepping over the pool of blood, and when he turned, that was when she saw it: a dagger.

No— _the_ dagger.

A curved black thorn, inlaid with swirls of gold.

It jolted her, like a shock of electricity. Tal pushed Sybienne back and approached the man alone, swinging the sword up to his neck. “Who are you?” She demanded. “Answer this time.”

He tucked his notebook away. “If I do, neither of you will leave this room alive.”

“You know something,” she seethed. The fury that possessed her was fresh and hot as an open wound. “Where did you get that knife? _Where?_ ”

The man rested a hand on the pommel of the beautiful dagger, turning to face Talrose. She flipped the sword on its edge and pressed it flat against his throat, leaning in close. He seemed amused by this turn of events, and did not flinch.

“Let’s just go!” Sybienne pleaded from behind her. “We don’t have time…”

“You should listen to your friend,” he said. “The guards are otherwise occupied at the moment. You may have less than five minutes to escape this place.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you give me some answers, _n’wah_ ,” she forced the blade closer to his throat.

Tal stiffened at a sharp prod to her side. The tip of the dagger was pressed into her motheaten tunic, under her ribs. From under his hood, she saw him looking down at her, indistinct darkness pierced by the faint glitter of his eyes. She curled her lip and put her hand on the flat of the sword, doubling down. In return, she felt the razor point of the knife prick her skin.

“Stop, stop it!” Sybienne came up to Tal, trying to pull her back. When that didn’t work, she turned to the stranger. “Please, don’t hurt her. We just want to leave. Let us go, and we won’t ever say we saw you.”

Tal glanced past Sybienne’s shoulder, to the tiny strip of light being let in under the door. She needed to run. Whether or not what he said was true about the guards, she and Sybienne only had this one chance. But if she let this man go, whoever he was, whomever he worked for, would be lost to her. The one sure link she had found to Mithel, and she was just supposed to let it go?

“… _Fuck!_ ” Tal shoved the man away, or more like pushed herself off of him.

“A wise course of action.” The stranger neatly snapped his knife back into its sheath.

“Come on…” Sybienne tugged her elbow, dragging her towards to door. “Let’s run. Let’s just run. Right?”

Talrose looked over her shoulder at the cloaked man, still standing over the guard’s body. Her veins were still pulsing with unspent energy, anger, adrenaline. “Right.”

Tearing her eyes away from the man felt like looking away from a hungry mountain lion. But she forced herself to look ahead.

She flung open the door and ushered Sybienne out into the hall first. There were no guards in sight. Just a long hallway, lit brightly with candelabras and lined with racks of armor.

Tal turned to shut the door behind her. Inside the cell block, she glimpsed the figure of the man wobble, as if through water, and disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about how long this chapter took, i've been in the middle of some time consuming real life stuff (moving and job) so i got hit with a bit of a time blockade. however i will try to keep updating without too much of a wait. 
> 
> huge shoutout to those who have commented, left kudos and bookmarked. your feedback means a lot and really helps motivate me.


	5. Anvil: The Tower

Talrose crept through the prison corridor, Sybienne close behind. Their bare feet thwacked against the wet stone, echoing down the empty halls.

They seemed the only inhabitants of the entire prison.

No one stood at the doors that they squeezed through. Chairs were left abandoned at each cell block, no guards to attend them with their asses. There were some prisoners still, groaning in pain in the corners of their cells. They went up, taking every staircase, getting to cleaner stone and brighter halls. Voices murmured behind doors. At each door, rushing one into the next into the next, a blur of racing hallways, Tal looked over her shoulder, expecting the man from their cell block to be right behind them. Yet they were always alone.

The bells started.

Under the castle, which was where they were, the heavy tolling rolled through the empty halls. Dust shook from the ceiling with each strike. Tal looked up, and around, but still, no one was in pursuit of them.

“They must have found the guard!” Sybienne squeaked.

“Hmm,” Tal said. “Well, they were going to eventually. Let’s keep moving.”

More silent hallways, which they ran in silence. Sybienne hit the next door and stopped. She jiggled the handle. “It won’t budge!”

“Move,” Tal set down her sword and pushed her aside. She raised one leg and threw her weight into a hard kick. The wood was barely scuffed.

“Okay,” she stood back. “It won’t budge.”

“Told you.”

“Shut up. I’ve got another idea.”

Talrose looked down at her hands. Blisters dotted her palms from her arrest, a mere taste of what could have happened. As a Dunmer, she was naturally resistant to fire, which was easy to cast and easier to lose control of. The losing control part was sometimes easier. She liked it better.

Huffing out a quick breath, she shut her eyes and pulled from the coiled heat of anger inside her. A fire in its own right. Heat pooled in her hands, and she concentrated on keeping it from burning her again. The healing blisters seared at the heat, stinging as raw as if they were fresh. She opened her eyes and saw a sunburst shivering before her, making the air shimmer. It dried all the moisture in her eyes. Slowly, she pushed her hands together.

The fire, popping and coiling, shrank to the size of an orange. It jerked back and forth, tugging at the edge of her control like a dog trying to shake its lead. With a snarl, she just managed to hurl it at the door.

As soon as it left her hands, a weight sagged her shoulders. She felt like an anchor had just been dropped from her, and she was being dragged back. Vertigo spun her vision. She groaned and hunched over to rest her hands on her knees.

The fireball struck the wood with a single _crack_ and a shudder that rocked the floor beneath her feet. It stayed embedded in the door, rolling like a ball in oil. Then, after a pause, the door folded with a deep _snap_ and shot through the corridor beyond, leaving a scorched border around the frame.

“By the Nine!” Sybienne exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a fireball like that! That was…hey, are you okay?” She reached out to set her hand on Tal’s shoulder.

“I’m fine!” Tal swatted her hand away. “Let’s go.”

Tal grabbed her sword up again, grimacing, and pushed Sybienne through the smoking door frame.

The younger woman kept an easy pace ahead of her, anxiously scurrying against the walls and peeping around each corner. It was hard for Tal to picture this as the same girl who so diligently scraped together a usable shiv out of wood. Yet, people surprised her all the time. No denying she made the damned thing, and whether she would have used it…she couldn’t say. There was some grit in her, buried though it was. Tal was nothing but grit these days. Like a fruit, eaten away to nothing but a wrinkled pit.

The next door was unlocked, and the found themselves in a new section of the castle. Scarlet runners ran down this hall, and alcoves held vases of potted flowers. It smelled of woodsmoke.

“We did it!” Sybienne laughed. “We really got out!”

“We haven’t gotten anywhere yet.” Talrose said. “Come on.”

They crept across the fine carpet to the next room. A forge simmered quietly in the corner, a cauldron of red-hot coals. Tools, hammers, calipers were scattered across a workbench against the wall.

Talrose went to a weapon rack and traded her stolen shortsword for a longsword. It was of typical Imperial make, a copy of the six others it was racked next to. She wondered where Nammu was. Father would have killed her if he found out she lost it. At least she didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

“A smithy…” Tal went to the workbench and ran her hand over the surface. “But no smith.”

“I wonder where everyone is,” Sybienne said. “We haven’t seen a single guard this whole time.”

“I’ve learned to just count my blessings and not think too hard about these things.” Talrose went behind the workbench and started cracking open drawers. She pocketed a handful of gold, found a pouch of almonds, and started shoveling them in her mouth. The food stilled some of the dizziness that followed her after that fireball.

“You think…” Sybienne chewed her lip, looking around the room. “What that man said. You think…maybe he did something to them?”

Tal frowned, chewing. “Like what? To the entire city guard?”

“I don’t know! But something is wrong. He told us we had less than five minutes to get out.”

“Hm.” She tossed the empty pouch aside. “Arrogant men say lots of things. Let’s move on.”

They smithy let them directly out into the castle foyer, which was quiet as the grave. Their soft, bare footsteps echoed in the cavernous marble room. Sybienne went to the silk runner and walked in place, warming her feet.

“Even here?” She whispered. “Of all places to be empty…”

A tickle of noise at the edge of Tal’s hearing. She lunged forward and grabbed Sybienne by the scruff, yanking her out of the middle of the room and up against the side of the stairs.

The castle gate opened, the solid double doors groaning with the effort, and chaos poured in. A plume of black smoke billowed into the foyer along with a flood of soldiers, running, covered in ash. A group of them plowed straight through to the throne room, some went right into the smithy, and further, calling down the hall. The quiet hall was now alive with crashing armor and panicked shouting. No one seemed to notice where Tal and Sybienne were, tucked into the side of the wall.

“Get the Countess to safety!” Someone shouted. “Be ready to evacuate the financial district!”

“Did you hear that?” Sybienne hissed.

“Shh!” Tal clamped a hand over her mouth.

After the soldiers came a rush of civilians, shuffling in nightgowns and bare-chested in trousers. Talrose squinted at the scraggly crowd and realized she recognized some of them. She spotted J’orad in the crowd, with his yellow mane. Then, floating above the greasy heads and confused eyes, she saw a pommel of a sword, a perfect black orb of obsidian.

Everything else vanished. Her vision whittled down to nothing but Nammu, calling to her like an old friend. She shoved Sybienne away and strode towards the river of people filing through to the throne room. Before she could get more than one or two steps, a hand clamped around her arm and pulled her back.

“What are you doing?” Sybienne hissed. “We’re almost out!”

“That’s my sword!” Talrose snarled. “Someone has _my_ sword!”

She tore her hand out of her grasp and tried to push forward again, but Sybienne yanked her back. 

“Don’t!” Sybienne pleaded, now holding with both hands. “This is our chance—we have to go now! If we stay any longer, someone is going to notice us.”

“You’re really starting to get on my nerves, girl.”

“Forgive me,” She squeezed, hard. “But we _cannot_ stay! If you’re caught, they will execute you. Your sword will have no use, then.”

Tal looked back at the crowd, watched the swaying pommel of Nammu get pulled further and further away. She then turned to the door to the castle, unguarded, open, people passing through freely. The soldiers too busy to look twice. Gritting her teeth, she pushed Sybienne off of her. They slipped past the guards, who paid two more greasy reprobates no mind, and squeezed out the door. Tal glanced over her shoulder, but whoever was holding her family sword was gone.

Under her breath, she muttered, “I’m sorry, Father.”

Out in the castle courtyard, the air was hazy with smoke. The dry air went straight to the back of her throat, like straw had been stuck behind her tongue and nose. Sybienne started coughing immediately, and sneezed several times in succession. It was too hot for the dead of night, even during Sun’s Height. (Last Seed, now, maybe, Tal thought.) It was a familiar heat, that reminded her of home. The bells thundered out here, vibrating in her ribcage with each heavy toll.

They pushed through the crowd still streaming into the castle and eventually broke through, finding refuge off to the edge of the path by a bench surrounded in lavender and poppies. Ash was snowing down on them, covering the trimmed hedges, flowers, vines, and statuettes in a fine layer of gray snow.

Talrose tore her shirt along her waist, cropping it in half. She gave the fabric to Sybienne. “Here. Cover your face. For the smoke.”

The young woman hesitated, then accepted the dirty fabric and tied it around her mouth and nose. “What about you?”

“Your concern is flattering, but don’t worry about little old me,” Tal said. “This is just your average afternoon on Vvardenfell.” She pulled her up by the elbow. “Come. We should get out of the city.”

Only a few stragglers were getting into the castle now, some grizzled sailors, a few drunks. Through the trampled mossy beds of flowers in the garden, they reached the castle gate. A breeze rushed through the gate, salty from the ocean and hot as standing before a campfire. Beyond, the bridge leading from the castle to the city stretched away into the dark and the haze. 

Tal stopped.

Before them stood Audas Andellus.

A linen mask was tied around his face, smeared with black soot. He was last in the train of fleeing civilians, escorting them into the castle. When he saw her, it took a moment for the recognition to come to light in his beady eyes. 

“Gatthen?” Andellus frowned. He reached for his sword.

Tal clamped a hand on Sybienne’s shoulder and yanked her back to whisper in her ear. “Remember what I said about running?”

“What about y—”

“ _Go!_ ”

Talrose shoved her with both hands, sending her stumbling forward. Andellus did a double-take at the Breton as she sprinted past, and made a grab for her, but too slow. Before her footsteps had faded from earshot, Tal was upon him, aiming for the gap in his armor at his neck, the same one she used to kill Blue Eyes. He turned and wrenched his sword up out of its sheath at the last possible instant. The impact rattled Tal’s arm. Her blade skidded off his, cutting a red line across his face and straight through his mask.

“Aghck!” He snarled, and lifted a hand to press against his bleeding face. “Gatthen!”

“Don’t worry, Andellus,” Tal said. “Just a couple more and you’ll be as pretty as me.”

She reached up and finally tore the bandages off her face and neck, revealing the damage Molkhun had inflicted. Andellus narrowed his eyes at her, tracking the scars from forehead to chin. Tal didn’t need to see her reflection to know it was bad. They stung like hell in the smoke, and it had been a month since the injury.

“You got those scars from a Khajiit,” he said.

“Ooh, you are observant tonight.”

“From Droarra of the waterfront district.”

She paused. “See, now you’ve lost me.”

“Don’t play games, Gatthen. I know you were behind her murder. And this gods-damned fire is your doing as well.” Andellus spat. “You orchestrated this escape from the very start.”

“Oh, don’t we both wish I was that clever,” she sucked her teeth. “Unfortunately, I never plan that far in advance.”

“You won’t fool me, Gatthen,” He scowled. “My harbor is burning to the foundations as we speak, and it’s your fault! You’re nothing but a dimwitted bilge rat, a lowly murderer. This city will be better off without you. And I will personally deliver your sentence.”

“Let me guess. Death?”

Andellus only straightened his stance, righting his sword in response.

Talrose grinned and raised her longsword over her head. “Let’s dance.”

They circled the court, spectated by the flowers. Andellus held his sword aloft, narrowed his eyes at her. Each step was an effort, her muscles tight and aching. That fireball had done her no favors. He might be dumber than a betty netch, but he was built like an ox. If she had a chance, it needed to end quickly.

Tal feigned a lunge and he jerked back. The range was hers—she poked and prodded, dancing the tip of her sword around him. He briskly struck it away each time it got too near. Andellus charged her out of the blue, lunging forward for a piercing strike. Tal jumped back and knocked it aside, and he came right back with a few blind swings. She kept her sword close, using it as a shield against the hammering blows. She could hear his enraged panting, could see the wild anger in his eyes. Sparks leapt from their blades, his shortsword sliding down and off hers, giving her an instant to put some distance between them.

The loose cobble of the courtyard path tripped her up as she stumbled back, and Andellus barreled after her, swinging past her head so close it nicked her bad ear, would have taken it clean off if it wasn’t already gone. His next swing was coming in from above, and she got her sword up just in time to block it, inches above her head.

“Shit!” She pushed him back and scrambled back, panting, right into a wall.

Andellus advanced, blood drooling off his chin, ash swirling around his feet with each step. “End of the line, elf.”

He sliced at her head and she ducked, heard the blade go skidding across the wall. An armored boot came flying up to meet her where she was hunched over. Tal hissed and jerked the pommel of the sword up in front of her face.

The kick mashed her fingers where they were holding the grip of the sword, which bounced back on her face hard enough to crack her nose. Agony shot through her knuckles, needling pain going clean through from tip to wrist. Blood was pouring down her mouth and onto her hands. On her knees now, she felt a second kick slam into her ribs, and something shifted inside her, snapped, searing like a hot iron.

“I always thought you’d be more of a challenge, Gatthen. You carried that fancy sword around the waterfront like you knew how to use it.” Andellus reached down and tore the stolen longsword from her shattered fingers. Tal whined through her teeth. “But it seems you were just another thief and murderer.”

“Fuck you.” She hocked a glob of blood at his feet.

“Any last words?” He lifted his sword to rest the edge at her throat, right at the scar. Tal shuddered at the sensation, remembering that dark alley.

A shadow rose behind him in the ash, and she caught the glitter on a blade. She grinned and squinted up at him through her rapidly swelling eyes. “Yeah. Tell your mom she has a great pair of—”

 _“Aghhh!”_ Andellus roared. A silver splinter was sticking out of the beck of his knee, in the soft behind the joint. He dropped, clutching his leg, to reveal Sybienne standing over him, eyes wide.

Talrose laughed, tossing her head back and getting a shot of blood to the back of her throat. “Come on, kid! Let’s get the vehk out of here.”

Sybienne hurried over and reached out to help her up. She gasped, and gingerly lifted her by the arms. “Your hands…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“We need to get you to a healer right away, my lady!”

“Ugh,” Tal grimaced, limping a few steps back. “Stop calling me that. My name is Talrose.”

“Talrose?” She looked back. “That’s an unusual name for a Dark Elf.”

“Yeah. Real cute, just like me.”

Sybienne in the lead, they made it through the main gate and emerged onto the bridge that connected the castle island to the mainland. Directly to their left, a towering wall of black smoke was rising from the waterfront. Orange light flickered through the darkness, but they couldn’t see the fire itself, hidden by the city walls. All the ships had been sailed further out, anchored at the mouth of the bay.

“It really is burning,” Tal said. She glanced over at Sybienne. “I sure didn’t expect you to come back.”

“Oh, well…” the younger woman scratched her head sheepishly, sending up a puff of ash. “I just had a feeling you might need some help. You were the one who really got us out. I owed you.”

“Thanks, kid.” Talrose smirked. She knew that gritty pit was in there, somewhere. “Now we’re even.”

Sybienne opened her mouth to say something, but her eyes drifted over Tal’s shoulder, and her jaw fell open in horror. Tal felt a chill run up her spine. The urge to sprint jolted her system, fight or flight deciding for her. Before she could take a single step, a hand clamped around the back of her neck and she was wrenched off her feet. Pain from her broken ribs squeezed the air out of her. She reached back to claw at the meaty fingers digging into her windpipe, and she was twisted around to face Andellus. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“You won’t be getting away, Gatthen,” Andellus lowered his face to hers, sour breath leaking through his bloodied mask. “And you will face justice. But not from me.”

He lifted her clear off the ground and forced her to the side of the bridge. Tal kicked out, her bare feet scrambling against the thick chain rail, rattling the heavy links. Her vision was swimming, a fog of dark clouds and swirling ash. A cold gust of wind buffeted her back, and she could sense the vast openness below her.

Sybienne grabbed Andellus’ arm, pulling and tearing at him. “No! Let her go!”

The captain struck her across the face and she stumbled out of Tal’s sight. There was a cold pleasure in his eyes, self-satisfaction, as he curled his fingers into her throat, his thumb screwing into the tender scar. “I will let the Nine decide your fate.”

With one hard shove, he hurled her over the side.

Tal lashed out to grab him but he was gone, swallowed by the smokey darkness. Her stomach lurched. A scream pierced the night. Wind whipped her ears, and she was turning over and over in grey haze, flailing at nothing. It was a dizzying flipping frantic few seconds. The greasy mass of her hair attacked her face, and she swiped it out of her eyes to catch a glimpse of water, felt the humidity on her face, and then felt nothing.

* * *

_Seventeen years ago._

Daromene opened the front door.

A gust of chill air swept in, rustling the herbs that dried from the ceiling. Talrose hung back, near the basement stairs. The black robe that encased her mother’s thin frame rose up in the wind like some fearful beast taking a deep breath. She waited for its exhalation.

A single dark eye peered over her shoulder, searing Talrose as sure as a brand, an eye full of contempt. It was only a passing moment, but Tal felt the piercing sting of that eye after her mother looked away and stepped out into the night. Talrose hesitated for a moment, and then followed, barefoot still.

Daromene walked down the path from their home, down into the black swamp. Talrose winced at each step, the volcanic stone rough on her bare feet.

Their path took them through the rugged marsh. Secunda and Masser glowed down at them, merciless pale faces. Pits of murk made glossy puddles on either side of the path. It stank of rotting kelp and sulfur, and the earthy warmth of mushrooms. Creatures chittered and talked in the dark. Nix-hounds prowled in packs. Tal could hear their slavering mandibles clacking off in the dark. A dreugh peered at them from far away, white eyes glowing pinpricks through the hanging foliage, before turning and walking deeper into the land. Even from a distance, Tal could hear its powerful crunching footsteps.

At last, they stopped. Another hill, just like the one their house was tucked into, interrupted the swamp. Wedged into the side was a round door. Tal knew this place—it was the family tomb. Dozens of Gatthens before her were buried beyond that little stone door. Father had brought her here the first time, back when he was still well. He had told her all about his great-grandfather, who had forged their family sword, Nammu.

Daromene stepped before the door, face as firm as stone. “Kneel.”

Talrose didn’t dare disobey. She knelt before the door, the rough stone digging into her bare knees. It hurt, but she ironed the grimace from her face. Daromene stepped forward, stroking Tal’s hair with long, stern fingers. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a horrible moment of enjoyment.

“I worry about you, Talranvase.” The low croak of her mother’s voice broke her fantasy, and she opened her eyes. “I worry that I have been cursed by the ancestors with a lying, disobedient child.”

“I haven’t lied to you, Mother.”

She sighed. Disappointed. “Why do you do this to your family? We are all that you have, and you would betray that with a foul attitude and treacherous lies. I suppose I should have seen this coming. Your father was a terrible influence on you. Perhaps his illness is a blessing in disguise. Now I can raise you properly, with some respect and reverence in your blood.”

Tal bowed her head. “I will do whatever you ask, Mother.”

“Then you will prove that to me.” Daromene stepped back to look her in the eyes. “Remain right here until daybreak. Pray to the ancestors for forgiveness. I will go home and do the same. Ancestors providing, we may cure you.”

Right there was exactly where she remained, listening to her mother’s footsteps fade away into the wilderness. The chorus of insects rose up again, surrounding her. Talrose stared at the door to the tomb. It was so dark, her eyes watered trying to find something to focus on. Her knees burned. Each little pebble, thorn, blade of grass, crumb of dirt was torture. All she wanted was to move, she would do anything. Swim miles, wrestle nix-hounds, just to be able to stand.

Each time she considered getting up, she remembered Mithel’s worried face, and she stayed put. If she went home now, her mother’s fury would come back a hundredfold, and he wouldn’t be spared. Better that she weather this, no matter how her knees ached, or how stiff her back became. Better her than him.

At any moment she expected some beast to come along and make a dinner of her. When dawn finally broke, pale and foggy through the trees, Tal almost didn’t notice. She had retreated into some deeper part of her mind, a hidden room where the pain was happening to someone else, and she could imagine she was far away.

When she returned to herself, as it were, it was like breaking from a hex. Tal took a quick breath, looking around her. It was over. Another deep breath, shuddering with relief. She pressed her hands to the ground and bowed, forehead to the ground, and murmured a prayer to her ancestors. Not a prayer to save her lying soul, like her mother wanted. A prayer of gratitude, because she knew it was her real family that had kept her alive all night.

Then she stood, and went home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow okay so...i am so sorry about the wait on this chapter. i ended up rewriting pretty much the entire thing after almost being done with it. plus i have been busy irl so my time to do any serious sit down writing has been kinda limited. so if you're reading this right now...thanks! 
> 
> and to everyone who has commented with kind words so far, i cant even say what it means to me. i expected this story to get zero attention and mainly have been writing it as my little love child, so to see that other people actually like what im writing is...crazy. most of my serious fanfic writing happened about ten years ago, so getting up the hutspah to post was a little nerve wracking! haha. thanks so much guys, i'll work hard on the next one just for yall.


	6. Anvil: Maw

Talrose cracked open one sand-crusted eye to see a seagull. Its blank, dumb stare looked straight through her. Sand and kelp muck flecked its feathers.

Tal lifted her head, coughed hard, gagged, and vomited out a stream of murky water. Pink blood dribbled in with it. It was hard to breathe, like in heavy humidity. Her eyes were pulsing, definitely the result of a broken nose. Sharp pain pinched at her fingers, but they were mostly numb. That was always a bad sign. Scared to look, she instead pulled herself off her stomach by her elbows and flipped over onto her arse. Her soaked clothes squelched when she moved.

The seagull squawked in fear and took off with an awkward flop. The river was before her, the mouth that led out to the sea, and she sat on the corner between the two. A wide swatch of beach, the balding edge of a grassy field. It had to be near Anvil, still, but she didn’t know how near. Everything was washed in a nauseous orange haze, the sun blocked by the smoke from the waterfront fire, and she couldn’t see much more than the surrounding ten yards. She sighed, wincing at a stab to her gut. Broken ribs, too.

Tal spat. Fucking Andellus. Hatred buzzed in her chest like a beehive. Next time, she would kill him if it meant her life, and ancestors damn everyone else.

Someone sat down next to her.

Her head snapped up, half expecting Sybienne. But it wasn’t Sybienne. The person was covered head to toe in black robes. In profile, she couldn’t see their face.

Talrose sucked in a sharp breath and froze. Icy fear ran cold to her shattered fingers. Sometimes, she could just smell the blood on someone. Could just _feel_ how closely death dogged at their heels. She stayed where she was, leaning back. Instinct told her to run. It was the same feeling she had gotten in the prison, with the stranger.

“You are finally awake.” A woman’s voice came from the hood, looking out over the water. After a pause, she said, “I am talking to you.”

“I…heard you.” Tal managed.

“Good.”

The woman turned to her and pulled down her hood. A fair face was underneath, dark-skinned, and long. The faintest whisper of grey was drawn through her dark hair, bound back in a strict bun. A single gold hoop pierced her lower lip. Her eyes, huge and dark, bore into her with an intense and earnest stare.

Talrose frowned, searching her memory. She seemed vaguely familiar. “Do I know you?”

“I should think not.” The woman said. “My name is Ahlm. I am a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Ah,” Tal said. “Well. Get on with it, then. Won’t be much of a challenge.”

“I have not come for your life.”

Tal sank back on her elbows with a wheezing sigh. “That’s funny, because you’re the third assassin I’ve seen in a month. Must be something you want.”

“I come to extend a unique offer to you, Talrose Gatthen.”

“Better not be a subscription to the Dark Horse Courier. Already told those cliff-striders to leave me alone.”

Ahlm smiled, slowly. It gave a new dimension to her wide, black eyes. “You are a murderer. Plain and simple. The Night Mother, our unholy matron, has seen your good work and is very pleased. I offer you the opportunity to join our Family.”

Talrose squinted at her. When she imagined Dark Brotherhood, she pictured decrepit hermits worshiping skulls, or something. This one looked like she could have walked right out of Castle Anvil. Yet there was no denying that she was what she said she was—she could just feel it. Ahlm’s eyes were steady and told no lies.

“Why me?” She looked away. “Can’t be every murderer in the province gets an offer.”

“We have our reasons.”

“So, what do I get out of it? Besides an expedited trip to the executioner’s block. I’m not a killer by choice. And I don’t worship your gods.”

“Not many become murderers by choice. Most of our members are opportunists, who turned a bad situation into something much greater. It must also be said that members who fulfill contracts are compensated generously.”

The woman clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “We protect our own. This is no bread and butter guild hall. You will receive great rewards for your service, companionship more loyal than any bond. People across Cyrodiil die every day for the most trivial reasons. Flu, old age, eating a bad fruit…at least, by your hand, their death may mean something.”

Tal scoffed. She ran her tongue across her teeth, thinking. “And what happens if I say no?”

Ahlm leaned back. “If I were you, I would think carefully before you decide on your answer.”

“I’m not looking for companionship. I don’t care about money. There’s only one thing I care about, and I doubt you have him hidden up your sleeve in your magical hall of murderers.”

“Ah, so you’re pursuing someone. I can assure you that our Family has ample resources to locate difficult-to-locate individuals. After all, it is…rather our main priority. Under our wing, you would have open access to everything we can offer. Magic, informants, and weapons. Whatever suits your needs.”

Tal sat up with a groan, her ribs jabbing her. She looked down at her hands. Three of her left fingers were swollen, stiff and purple. All four of her right fingers were the same way. Brown blood was caked under her fractured, spotted nails. All of her fighting, and it had taken her nowhere. Backwards, even. The blue-eyed guard had been sacrificed for what? So she could wash up on some forgotten coast like driftwood and feel sorry for herself? Mithel was out there, waiting for her. All she needed was a little forward momentum.

More than that, she remembered the knife. That black fang embossed with gold. Molkhun had carried one, and so had the stranger in prison. A thread, faint as it may be, was beginning to form.

“Okay.” She said. “I’ll do it.”

The grin that peeled across Ahlm’s face gave Tal a chill. “Excellent. Under normal circumstances, I would bestow upon you your first contract and your first gift. However, in your condition, you will not be doing much of anything.”

“Yeah, rough night.” Tal said. “Top ten, for sure.”

Ahlm snapped her fingers over her shoulder. “We will resolve your situation quickly.”

From the pale smog behind them, another robed figure emerged. They strode toward her with purpose, silent but fast. Tal from one to the other, alarm wailing inside her head. “Wait, hold on a second…”

She struggled to her feet, but didn’t get more than a few steps. Iron hands clamped around her upper arms. The second assassin had caught her. She tried to stomp on their feet, but they moved quicker than her clumsy stumbling.

Ahlm stood, watching her with a slight smile. “This will only take a moment.” She extended her hand, spread wide to encompass Tal’s face in long, spidery fingers. When she spoke, her voice was layered in harmonies. “ _Sleep._ ”

A flash of blue light. Tal felt her knees give, but she didn’t hit the ground. Everything became muffled and cloudy, the haze of orange smoke now in her head, too. Fogging up her eyes. It was peaceful, and warm. She was tired. Curled up beside the fireplace with a bowl of saltrice and meat.

“Pick her up.” Ahlm’s command was faint, echoing. “And make sure she is asleep.”

The world tipped upside down, but she wasn’t confused. The panic she knew she should be feeling was far away, at the bottom of a well of serene drowsiness. Arms wrapped around her, and she felt the ground leave her behind. She was floating, cradled. Tal looked up and saw the one carrying her. A man, and though her vision was fading, she saw the day-old stubble on his face. He looked down at her, eyes glittering in the dark of his hood.

“Hey,” she mumbled. “I think I know you.”

And then she slept.

* * *

Talrose opened her eyes.

It felt as though she had only just awoken, minutes ago, on a beach outside Anvil.

Tal sat up, gingerly at first, but her ribs didn’t stab at her anymore. She looked around the room. It was all stone, and smelled of damp soil. Huge banners emblazoned with a black ink handprint hung everywhere. Candelabras cast gloomy, flickering light in the corners, one just above her. Other beds occupied the room, identical and empty. It reminded her of a crypt, a clean one.

She didn’t feel drowsy. Quite the opposite—she felt refreshed, her mind as clear as a bell. Linen sheets were pulled tight around her, tucked up to her armpits. There was no pain in her body, and her breathing came easy. When she lifted her hands, she saw her normal fingers, not bruised or swollen or broken.

A realization struck her, and she grabbed her face. But the long gashes from Molkhun were still there. She sighed. Well, can’t have it all.

Everything from the beach came back to her. The elegant woman, the offer she had agreed to. Ancestors, what nonsense was she getting mixed up with this time?

A black ribbon was tied around her right wrist.

It looked as out of place on her as a Nord in Black Marsh. It was glossy silk that shimmered as she turned her hand around, tied with a fanciful bow. Where it touched her skin, it buzzed faintly, a tingling itch. Had that woman put it there?

The door to the room creaked open. As if responding to her thoughts, Ahlm entered, hood back. Another assassin slipped in behind her. In their loose black robes, the pair were identical but for their faces and heights. This one was a man, an Imperial with olive skin and black hair tied back. Just by his demeanor, Tal could tell this was the one from the prison—the stranger. Ahlm approached her bed and sat down at the end near her feet. The stranger stayed back at the door, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms.

“Now that you are healed, we can resume our conversation from yesterday.” Ahlm said.

“Well, hello to you too.” Tal said. “Where am I?”

Ahlm smiled. “You are within one of our many Sanctuaries. A safe place for Family members, such as yourself.”

They sure had a lot of words besides _assassin._ Tal pursed her lips. “Right. So…what now? I can just kill whoever I want?”

“Not exactly. All of the rules will be explained in due course. For now, you have a personal objective. You have accepted my invitation into the Family, but you must prove your devotion. Consider this your first contract.”

“A contract? That was quick. Is this how things usually work?”

“Sometimes.” Ahlm said. “Your case is rather unusual. Normally, I would simply offer a contract to any promising candidate. The completion of that contract is their choice. If they complete it, then I would revisit them with a true invitation. However, you were unable to complete a contract due to your injuries, which makes your scenario slightly different.”

Talrose narrowed her eyes. “Mine isn’t optional, is it?”

“That is correct.” Ahlm smiled.

“And what happens if I don’t kill them?”

“In the interest of your personal safety, I would strongly recommend completing your contracts.” She said. “I am sure you have noticed by now the ribbon around your wrist. That fabric carries a special enchantment. It is bound to another, a twin, and the two can never be far from one another.”

Tal processed it for a moment. “So you’re telling me that someone else is wearing one of these, and I have to stay near them. Who?”

Ahlm made a beckoning gesture over her shoulder. The man at the door approached, reaching for his sleeve. Tal realized what was happening before she even saw the matching ribbon tied around his forearm.

“Allow me to introduce Lucien Lachance.” Ahlm said. “He will be your shadow, for however long it will take you to complete your first contract.”

“I don’t need a nanny.” Tal snapped. “Or a guard, or a spy. I work alone.”

“Lucien is not permitted to assist you with your contract.” Ahlm said, with a glance back at the man in question. “He is merely there as…insurance.”

Talrose reached for the band of the ribbon and tugged, but the knot didn’t budge, stuck as stone. She clicked her teeth and pulled harder. Ahlm watched her with that mellow, amused expression.

“It will not come off so easily.” She said. “And, incidentally, if you take it off by force through magic or some other means, it is double-layered with a killing hex.”

Tal dropped her hands, muttering, “Could have fucking mentioned that first.”

“Do not worry. This is only for this first contract. As soon as your mark is dead, the enchantment will dissolve.” Ahlm reached into her robes, and Talrose leaned back, but the other woman only chuckled. “You have nothing to fear. It is only a gift. A helping hand for your first contract.”

From her black robe, she withdrew a dagger.

Talrose knew what was coming, knew it before she _really_ knew. Even so, she felt her pulse spike when she saw it.

The same dagger on Molkhun, his feet still wet from the blood in her house. The same dagger on the stranger in the prison, needling her ribs.

When she took it in her hands, she turned it over, running her thumb across the gold filigree. It was lighter than she expected, for something so gaudily decorated. The grip was smooth black leather. Tal wrapped her hand around it and tugged an inch of the blade from the sheath. It was a perfect, midnight black, polished to a flawless shine. Liquid drops of light wobbled in its obsidian reflection. 

Tal clenched it hard to keep her hands from shaking. “Pretty.”

“It is a clean blade, but you are not its first owner.” Ahlm said. “With it, you will kill one Dumania Jirich, in Anvil.”

Not the first owner. Did that damned Khajiit already hold this blade? Was Mithel’s blood still deep inside this obsidian? The thought ignited a fresh, hot fury in her blood. She was going to drive this black thorn right into that cat’s heart, she was going to wring the answers from him until she had her brother back. Finally, she felt like progress had been made. Without a doubt, the Khajiit had been a Dark Brotherhood assassin.

Absorbed in the dagger, seething, it took Tal a moment to process the rest of what Ahlm had said. She looked up. “I can’t go back to Anvil. I’m popular with law enforcement right now.”

“Then it will be a test of skill _and_ loyalty.” Ahlm stood, neatly brushing off her already immaculate robes. “There are spare clothes in the chest at the end of your bed. Your contract is not timed. Walk always with Sithis.”

The other assassin, Lucien, bowed his head to her as she left the room. Talrose looked back down at the dagger.

For as long as this nightmare had been happening, she had pictured this knife. Usually, wrestling it from Molkhun’s hands and killing him with his own blade. She hadn’t imagined that it would be given to her freely. Or how many of these exact daggers were running around Cyrodiil. Jabbing people in the ribs, murdering people’s brothers.

Not dead, she reminded herself. Tal would know if he was dead. Sibling intuition, ancestral influence, she didn’t know. But she knew he wasn’t dead.

Tal set the dagger aside and tossed off her sheets. There was still a little stiffness in her hands, an arthritic creaking. Could be a lot worse.

“Can you walk?” Lucien spoke, for the first time since their encounter beneath Castle Anvil.

She twisted, setting her feet down on the cold stone floor. “Probably.”

“Good.”

He spat the word like a curse, turned on his heel and marched out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Tal glared after him. “ _N’wah_.”

Getting to her feet was a shaky affair. As soon as she stood, her stomach gurgled in protest, reminding her that her last meal was a _very_ long time ago.

The chest Ahlm had indicated did indeed contain fresh clothes. Undergarments, trousers, a tunic and belt. Even a pair of clearly secondhand boots. All black. Of course, a robe was included as well, so she could blend in with the rest of the _family_.

With some grunting and tripping, sore and very weak, Tal managed to get herself dressed. The tunic had a long sash that hung down between her legs to her knee, front and back. Sweating, she dropped back down on the bed to tie her belt and tug on her boots. She considered taking the robe, knowing it provided anonymity, but settled for just the hood, which she looped over her head and kept back for now.

Subtlety had never been her strong suit, anyway.

There was a mirror across the room, and she grabbed the dagger on her way out. Someone had scratched the words _Ahlm sucks scamp toes_ in the glass.

Her reflection frowned back at her with rough black eyebrows. Lifted a hand to trace the scars that cut across her face. The one on her neck, as long as her pinky finger but warped and mottled, like someone had dragged their thumb through her skin like clay. To think such a small wound almost killed her. It seemed like a lifetime ago already.

Father had always said that she had inherited his good looks: a strong jaw, high cheekbones, a large, hooked nose. Very standard and classic Dunmeri features, old blood. But when Tal looked at herself, all she could see were her eyes, red iris and black sclera. The eyes of her mother. Eyes that had always looked down at her with disgust. Eyes which even now regarded her with repulsion.

Tal turned away, pulling her fingers through her tangled hair. She needed a drink.

The room’s only door let out to a plain corridor. The walls were stone and mud, and everything smelled like freshly tilled earth. Dirty banners wilted against the walls. At the very end of the hall, the assassin who was tied to her was waiting against the wall, arms crossed. It didn’t seem like he’d seen her yet.

No other option but to play this game for now. Tal couldn’t remove the ribbon, but it seemed that he would keep his distance.

“At last.” He unfolded his arms as she approached. “Let’s make this quick.”

“What was your name again?” Tal asked, pulling her hair over her bad ear.

“Lucien Lachance.”

“That’s right. Let’s just be straight with one another, shall we, Lachance?” She said. “You don’t like me, and I don’t like you, either. That’s fine. I’m not here to make friends. But the way I see it, we’ll both be out of this situation faster if we work together.”

Lucien’s face remained an immutable mask. “I’m not permitted to help you.”

“Oh, come now. I know you’re not _permitted,_ ” Tal framed the word in air quotes. “But the other one will never find out. What’s she going to do, follow us the whole time? Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“You’re assuming I _wish_ to help you.” His low voice was tight with frustration. “Which I do not.”

“Hmph.” She sniffed. “Fine, then. Your choice! Who knows how long this could take…my first contract? It might be weeks!”

Lucien said nothing, simply turned away from her and around the corner. Tal scowled after him, and followed. She felt like a dog on a lead. Stuck-up Imperial bastard. 

The assassin led her up through the sanctuary, a sprawling anthill of tunnels. Many doors were built into the dark walls, like sunken eyes. Light flickered under some. Quiet talking could be heard, but she couldn’t make out anything being said. Banners of black handprints followed them everywhere.

Talrose reminded herself that this was not the Morag Tong. Although taboo, they were a social necessity for the backstabbing nobles of the great Houses. Dunmer did a few things right and one of them was hold grudges. Tal knew she was no exception. Holding grudges was basically the national pastime. In such a country, a league of assassins was going to profit, and at that point, the government might as well regulate it.

These were not the Morag Tong. They were not acknowledged by the Empire as an official guild, they were not spoken of in public. The Dark Brotherhood was a religious cult. Coin was only a partial motivation—these people _liked_ to kill. And now she was one of them.

At last, the winding tunnels of the sanctuary released them into a large antechamber, and Tal got her first look at some of the other residents.

A few men sat around a table in the corner, speaking quietly. Sheets of parchment were crumpled up around their elbows, hands black with ink. A Dunmer man sat crosslegged against a wall, eyes closed, hovering about three feet off the ground. A redhead Bosmer woman with only one arm passed them on her way out, followed closely by a shaggy-haired hound. At a table in the opposite corner from the writing men, a striped Khajiit had their hand splayed out on the table surface, stabbing the spaces between their fingers back and forth with a dagger.

Tal took it in, and then kept her eyes forward. It was just like any other seedy bar. Don’t make eye contact. Mind your own business. Ahead, Lachance was making quick strides, clearly eager to leave.

“Miss! You there, miss, wait!”

Tal stopped. She turned on a heel, pressing a smile onto her face.

A pale Breton man was hurrying over to her. He was perhaps twenty-five, no more. His robes hung loose on his skinny frame, made more skeletal by his hollow cheeks. Lank, dirty blonde hair hung in a limp ponytail.

“What?” Tal said.

“How are you, erm, feeling?” He asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?”

“Oh!” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “How foolish of me. I forgot to introduce myself. I was the one who healed your injuries after Ahlm brought you to us here. My name is—”

“Bellamont.”

Tal looked behind her, at Lachance, who had his arms crossed again. The Breton licked his thin lips, narrowing his eyes at the other man for the briefest moment.

“Please, call me Matthieu.” He extended a hand for Tal to shake. She did. His skin was cool and clammy. “I am a Slayer here at this sanctuary.”

“Talrose.” She said. “No offense, but you don’t look much like many healers I’ve seen.”

“Ah, well,” he chuckled nervously. “Most of my restoration knowledge is actually based in necromancy. It doesn’t much to reverse-engineer that.”

“Right.” Tal withdrew her hand. “Well, I owe you one.”

“You can speak some other time.” Lachance spoke up. “We have business to attend to.”

Tal looked over her shoulder and clicked her tongue. “You really are no fun.”

“Please, don’t let me distract you.” Matthieu bowed his head to Lachance, forcing a flat smile. “I’m sure we will have plenty of time to talk without interruption. Walk always with Sithis.”

The young man turned and melted back into the corridor he had come from. Lachance began walking towards the far end of the hall again. Their interaction had not gone unobserved—there were no eyes on them, these types too cautious and trained not to look in a conspicuous way. Yet the feeling of being watched had come cracking down on Tal like a stone. She picked up the pace to catch up with her unwilling companion.

“What was that about?” She asked.

Lachance ignored her completely.

“Hmph.” Tal sniffed. “Fine. I can tell we’re gonna get along _famously_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the continued support everyone despite the slowest updates imaginable, hahaha. This is the longest chapter yet, to make up for the wait time. Every time I get a comment or a kudos it really invigorates me, knowing people are out there who actually read this stuff I'm making and then have opinions on it...pretty wild! Thanks so much everyone.


	7. Anvil: Spider, Parlor, Fly

The tunnel that led out from the sanctuary was a narrow rabbit hole, damp soil on all sides packed smooth from countless hands pressing there for balance. Shaky flagstones made the path that they followed up, and up, and up. All noise was suppressed into nothing in the tunnel, every breath and footstep dampened and made intimately close. The steep path craned upward for a long time.

Cheydinhal wasn’t much, but at least it wasn’t this. Far east, the Sanctuary that Lucien called home was boldly located inside the city walls of Cheydinhal, within the withered husk of an abandoned house. Again, not much, but there was a certain dignity in being able to walk through a normal door into a house. In some ways, the abandoned house felt just as much like home as the Sanctuary below did. Anvil’s Sanctuary was the only other that Lucien had visited, and he wasn’t even fully sure if any others existed. It had been buried deep, a worm in the apple of the Gold Coast. Then destroyed, and then buried deeper.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, the path began to slowly level out, and the dirt walls yielded to stone. The corridor opened up a touch wider, and the flagstone path became a floor. Cold braziers hung crooked on the walls. Ahead, a solid, blank stone door blocked their way.

“Ugh.” Talrose nudged an old crate with her foot, sending a flood of cockroaches spilling out. “What is this place?”

Lucien didn’t respond as he pushed open the door. He had nothing to say to her.

The sanctuary door opened, stone grinding on stone, and let in a rush of fresh air. Lucien stepped through, into the small antechamber beyond. A gnarled mass of roots gripped the doorway, dangling close to his head like spidery fingers. He held the door behind him to allow Talrose to squeeze past first. It slid shut behind them with a gravelly crunch.

Two simple steps took them up and into the world.

Above them, the guardian of the sanctuary loomed: a monumental oak. This was their abandoned house. A massive shell of green leaves fluttered around them, the limbs of the oak brought low by age, some nearly dragging on the ground. A vein of smooth, dead wood shot through the trunk and up. Far above, a single limb of stiff, dead branches waved in the coastal breeze.

The oak sat atop a small hill on the Gold Coast, one of many odd one-off trees just like it that dotted the rippling golden grasses that gave the area its name. The sun was setting over the water, casting long shadows. In the distance, the city of Anvil was tucked into the hook of the bay, boasting a fresh crust of scorched harbor.

“It’s fucked.” Talrose was looking out over the town, fingers laced behind her head. “One could argue this is actually an improvement, though.”

Lucien ignored her and began walking. It would be dark soon, and he had no intention of lingering with the wolves and mountain lions. The sooner they reached Anvil, the better. _Mauled by a mountain lion would be just my luck._

Talrose jogged up in front of him, walking backwards. “You could _try_ to act like I’m not invisible.” When he continued to ignore her, she said, “Or just keep doing that. Not like I’m literally tethered to you with magic bracelets or anything.”

He shut his eyes for the briefest moment, praying to Sithis for patience. Ahlm’s black ribbon buzzed against his arm a little harder, like it was responding to her jabs. “What do you want from me.”

“A little conversation would be nice.” She said. “I’ve got some questions. _Assassin_ questions. Right?”

Lucien glanced down at her, taking awkwardly long backward steps down the slope of the hill. A grin was plastered on her face, crooked, sly as if she knew something he didn’t. It was her resting facial expression. Always grinning, anticipating a punchline. Quite different from the person who had been snarling in his face underneath Castle Anvil, slimy with hot blood. Who, in turn, was quite different from the angry creature that Ahlm had peeled from the sand a day ago. He wondered which one was her true face.

“How about this. We take _turns_ asking questions.” She held her palms out. “That’s fair, yeah? Scratch each other’s backs, all that. I’ll even let you start, how’s that for a deal?”

“What, precisely, leads you to believe that I want to know anything about you?” He said.

“Nothing, _precisely,_ except that I’m very interesting and exotic. Perfect, now it’s my turn. See, this is easy.”

“That was _not_ —”

“What do the different ranks mean? That necromancer said he was a Slayer, and your friend said she was a Speaker.”

Lucien kept his silence for a moment, reminiscing on many past moments of blessed solitude, moments he would give his left arm to be experiencing instead of this. “Ahlm is not my friend. She is the Anvil Speaker. The Listener is the highest-ranking member. He hears the whispers of our Dread Mother, and dictates those orders to the Speakers, who in turn instruct those at their Sanctuaries. All are members of the Black Hand, the ruling body of the Family. Four fingers and a thumb, as it were.”

“Hm. What rank are you? Can’t be very high if Ahlm shipped you off without a second thought.”

“I believe it is my turn.”

Talrose cocked her head, still grinning. “That it is.”

“You killed the prison guard. A death that was not necessary.” _A death that was mine to claim_ , he thought. “Why?”

Although she continued smiling, something shifted in her eyes, went dark and cold. She shrugged nonchalantly. “She was in my way. We needed to get out and she was going to stop us by force if she needed to. So I killed her. Do you _live_ in that Sanctuary place?”

“Hm. Some do,” he was still thinking on her previous answer, and responded without thinking. “Those with nowhere else. I do not live on the Gold Coast. I am from a different Sanctuary.”

“A different Sanctuary? There are more? _Card_ , _fahrakam gahmahket._ ” She shook her head. “Why are you at this one, then?”

“I am beginning to doubt that you understand the rules of your own game.” When she glared at him, he said, “I will think of something to ask. You should be thinking of your contract.”

“Fine.” Talrose said. “I’m going to go over there and think about killing people. Might as well get used to it.”

The Dark Elf took a few deliberate sidelong steps away, deeper into the harsh light of the dying sun. The much-needed space between them allowed Lucien to breathe easier. When he’d left Cheydinhal, it seemed at first like a break from the twins and their constant noise. Bickering at each other, at him, at anyone. Training, eating, snoring, and always _talking._ Now, just when he had started to confront the possibility that his so-called holiday on the Gold Coast was getting a little quiet… Ahlm did have a cruel sense of humor.

Around his forearm, beneath the sleeve of his tunic, he could feel the ribbon humming against his skin. Lucien knew magic, understood it as one may understand arithmetic, but not beyond that. He did not know magic as mages did, he did not embrace it, but rather kept it at arm’s length, a safe distance away. Magic was a tool, not an art. It served a purpose. A blade serves a purpose. He could turn himself invisible, mostly, and make his drinks cold. But Ahlm’s magic, this dark, twisted root that curled its fingers around his arm, he did not understand. It was personal.

Lucien recalled standing before the door to the Sanctuary infirmary as Ahlm tied the band around his arm, ran her fingers across it and whispered it to life. “There,” she had said. “It will remain until her contract is complete.”

“You could have chosen anyone else for this,” he had said. “Why me?”

Her wide, dark eyes had watched him intently, unblinking. “If you wish to behave as wild as a dog, you will be leashed as one.”

_Yes,_ he thought. _Very personal._

—

By the time they reached Anvil, it was well past dark. The streets were quiet, the type of quiet like just after a crack of thunder. Clumps of people huddled against buildings, miserable faces turned down into their ragged blankets. There was a garden near the main gate, a glade with a pond that boasted a huge statue of a mermaid. Vagrants were shifting amongst the roses, drinking from the pond, glancing up at passersby with dark, wary eyes. Guards stood at every corner, sometimes in groups, hands on their swords. _Waiting. To start something, or end it._

“What’s going on?” Talrose asked.

Lucien simply replied, “It isn’t your turn yet.”

That placated her once more, but judging by the look she shot his way, he knew it wouldn’t work again. Lucien looked down at a young girl tucked into the corner of a shop stairwell, clutching a baby to her breast. She looked up at him as they passed, her eyes black marbles of sorrow. The twins couldn’t have been much older than her. A pale arm dropped from the bundle she was clutching, limp and lifeless. The girl continued to stare at Lucien until he was out of her sight, her glassy dark eyes piercing him, as if she knew that he had caused this.

Sithis was chaos incarnate. In all his dark glory, he thrived off discord and misery, both of which were oozing from Anvil like a bad wound. Anyone who created chaos to serve Sithis must be duly rewarded. Lucien repeated this internal prayer to Sithis until the little worm of guilt stopped its writhing.

“Here, perfect!” Talrose made a sudden turn and ducked into a tavern, a three-story behemoth, stacked white clay bricks crowned with red tiles. Lucien reluctantly followed, still thinking of the girl’s dark eyes and her dead child.

Inside, she was already chatting with the barkeep. Despite the crowded streets, the tavern was almost empty. A single drunk was slumped in a corner table, a limp hand still draped over an empty cup. All of the walnut tables were polished to a mirror shine, all the sconces danced with cheerful candles. It was an establishment prepped and polished like a lady before a ball, ready for customers who were not coming.

Lucien approached the bar. The woman tending to it was a plain Nord, blonde hair tied up in a braid. She eyed him suspiciously as he came to stand behind Talrose.

“Can I help you with something, m’lord?” She asked loudly.

Talrose turned around, a bottle of chilled wine in her hand, plaster grin back on her face. “Oh, he’s with me.”

“All right, then,” the barkeep said, her thick accent curling each word. “What’ll you have?”

“Noth—”

“Whatever ale’s cheapest, thanks.” Talrose cut him off. “Bit of a featherweight, him.”

Casting him another frown, the barkeep tapped his drink and handed it across the bar, foaming over the edge of the mug. “There y’are. You can settle up later.”

“Cheers.” Talrose pushed off the bar. Lucien grabbed his drink and followed her to a reading room off the main dining area. A fire was already crackling merrily in the small hearth, casting warm light on the surrounding bookshelves. Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the stained glass windows.

She threw herself into a green satin armchair, kicked her feet up over the arm and let out a long sigh. Lucien put the ale on a local table, wiping the stench of hops off his hand. “You do not seem concerned about your contract.”

“Dumania Jirich’s a priestess at the chapel.” She said. “Barkeep says she comes around once in a while to collect alms from tourists, and,” she interrupted herself to take a seconds-long pull from her bottle. “The rabble outside are apparently from the harbor. What used to be the harbor.”

A note of bitterness soured her words, and she drank again. The fire tossed back and forth, casting disjointed shadows across her scarred face. Draped across the armchair, long-limbed and wiry, she would have made a passable subject for a painting. Something macabre, like _The Murderess._ No, much too elegant. _Dunmeri Decorum_ teetered on the brink of racism. _Mores of an Acolyte._ Much better. A black spider crouched amongst the neatly-organized books and miniature model ships in wine bottles. 

“And do you intend to do anything about it?”

She watched him with disdain, like he was a fly, spinning in her web. “Obviously. Or we can just walk around cuffed like this forever.” Another long sip of wine. “Give me a break. I haven’t had a chance to catch my breath in weeks.”

If she thought that this lifestyle made for many relaxing evenings in tavern houses, she was in for a rude awakening. Lucien remembered when he was the same as her, arrogant, luxuriating in the idea of a mysterious life as an assassin. Many who joined the Family were running. Escaping. It resulted in a grace period of euphoria, beggars and orphans and tortured minds estranged from their family elated at their sudden drop into a different world. It was as sudden a transition, as abrupt and dark as plummeting through an unseen hole in the earth. This stomach-turning drop was also when many acolytes made fatal mistakes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scoffed. He must have been wearing his disapproval on his face. “Ancestors, you looked like my mother. Have a drink.”

“I find it best to keep my wits about me.”

“How noble of you.” She muttered past her bottle. “Is it some kind of rule that you can’t have any fun in the Dark Brotherhood? Because if so, I might have to back out.”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed.

“What, you scared? By all accounts any Dark Brotherhood member would be able to kill everyone in this tavern without a witness and no mess. Unless you aren’t all that you’re talked up to be.”

He decided not to justify that with an answer. Lucien crossed his arms and glanced over his shoulder, ensuring they were still, indeed, alone. The barkeep was speaking to a couple at the bar, a pair of Imperials in brocade coats. At the table in the corner, the drunk stirred at the noise, slurred something completely unintelligible, and passed out again. The pair at the bar shifted away from him, faces curled in disgust, as though poverty were catching. That was the great flaw of Anvil, the glowing jewel of the Gold Coast. The poor were made poorer, the rich made richer. The two were splitting apart, a log with a wedge driven through. And Lucien had just brought the hammer down on it.

“Why’d Ahlm saddle you with me anyway?” She asked. When he raised an eyebrow at her, she raised one right back. “What? I know you aren’t some common initiate like me. You know your shit. Can practically smell the death on you. So why’re you the one she leashed me to?”

“She…” He considered his phrasing. “Believed that my performance on my last contract was less than adequate.”

“This is punishment, I got that part. There’s no more to this?”

Supposed he couldn’t keep it from her forever. “My last contract was failed. I did not eliminate my target. You did.”

There, she frowned. The pieces were moving behind her red eyes, putting together the events of the last week. Then—he saw the instant she understood. “You! It was yours! I mean she. Blue Eyes. She was your contract. That’s why you were there!” Talrose laughed incredulously, a single hoarse bark, and sank back in her chair. “I took your contract!”

“Try not to gloat.” He snapped. “I went through a great deal of trouble to execute that contract.” _To create the perfect distraction, a distraction large enough to pull almost every guard from the castle…_

_“Attempt_ to execute,” Talrose corrected with a grin. “Sorry. I’m allergic to humility.”

“Clearly.” He gritted out.

Snorting with laughter, she went back to staring at the fireplace, occasionally shaking her head and chuckling to herself. Lucien left her in the reading room, retreating back to the main bar. He didn’t need to stand there and be humiliated even further.

The wealthy couple were sitting in the corner furthest from the drunk, sipping on small glasses of the same sweet wine that Talrose was putting away by the pint just one room over. Lucien sat up at the empty bar, and the blonde bartendress drifted his way, clearly reluctant but unable to resist potential business.

“Brandy.” He said.

“Thought you were a featherweight.” She drawled back.

“Do you usually interrogate patrons?” Lucien glared at her. “Brandy.”

The Nord grumbled something about Imperials and walked off to get his drink. Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to breathe his anger out. He hadn’t had much need to drink of late, except for the occasional glass of wine. It was not the image he wanted projected to the twins, as many of his colleagues were in the habit to indulge before, after and sometimes during their contracts. Vicente was the only exception, but Lucien believed that were he yet alive, he would still be sober.

The bell on the tavern door chimed, and a chill, humid breeze swept in. Heavy steps approached, and the newest guest leaned against the bar. The steel armor he wore was polished to a proud shine; the crest of the Anvil guard was emblazoned on the front. He was a stocky bull of a man, with a brute face half-covered in padded gauze.

“Yrswen!” He banged his hand on the bar. “Flagon of your best ale! And a full flagon, not like last time!” He laughed, a joke no one else got, and looked down the bar at Lucien. “Quiet night, eh?”

“Indeed.” He replied. _It was._

The bartendress came around and dropped a flagon on the bar for him. No brandy in sight. “That’ll be—”

“Five crowns, as usual,” the guard tossed the coins up on the bar. Yrswen picked them up, unamused. “And a little something extra for you.” He passed her a sheet of parchment. “If you see this elf, let me know right away. Another piece of filth for the hangman.”

Yrswen snatched the flyer and put it under the bar. “Anything else, ser?”

“That’ll do it, sweetroll,” he winked. She rolled her eyes and marched off. The guard turned to Lucien and handed him the same flyer. “Keep an eye out for this one, brother. Plenty of rubbish in the street needs cleaning in this town, but none as dangerous as her.”

Lucien took the parchment and looked down to see Talrose’s scarred face staring back at him. The features were harsher, verging into the territory of caricature, but it was undoubtedly her. Same scars, same missing ear. Emblazoned across the bottom of the page was the phrase: TALROSE GATTHEN: WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE FOR MURDER, ARSON, ASSAULT, AND ESCAPING CITY CUSTODY. The reward was 2000 crowns. Lucien kept his face carefully blank.

“Thank you for the warning.” He said. _Fuck._

“My pleasure. We need the help of every upstanding citizen these days.” The guard slapped the bar again as he got up. “My room open tonight?”

Yrswen wasn’t paying attention to him anymore, and it seemed he wasn’t looking for an answer anyway. He started towards the reading room, burying his face in the foam of his ale. Lucien grabbed the flyer and got across the bar in time to stop the other man, stepping in his path.

“Apologies, ser, but my friend and I have taken up in this room for the evening.” He said.

The guard grunted and wiped the ale from his upper lip. “Well, clear out. On order of the Anvil City Watch.” He paused for a moment, then belted a sour-smelling laugh and clapped Lucien on the shoulder. “Only joking, brother. I’ll only be here a moment. Have to get back on my rounds.”

He started to step around Lucien, who dipped into his path again. “I must insist on privacy. My friend is not feeling very well. Long night, you understand.”

“Listen, friend, on any other night I would be more than happy to sit elsewhere. But I’ve had a week like you wouldn’t believe and Dibella help me, I need to be sitting in front of that fire tonight.”

Once again he tried to step past, and once again Lucien stopped him. This time, annoyance started to pull on the guard’s mouth. “Allow me, then, to break this news to my friend.”

The man sniffed. “Very well, be quick.”

“Thank you, ser.”

Lucien rounded the very short corner into the reading room, where Talrose was still right where he’d left her, wine bottle on the floor and his abandoned ale now in her hand. She raised the mug to him, her smile loose. “There you are! Thought you’d run off on me. Suppose you can’t, though, cause of the…the ribbon thing. What happens if we get too far—”

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the chair. “We are leaving, right now.”

“Hey, hey, easy!” She tried to pull away, but he held fast. “What’s gotten up your arse?”

“This.” He whipped out the poster with her face on it.

Talrose frowned and grabbed it from him, cocking her head. “This doesn’t look like me, does it? Looks like a bad drawing of a Dunmer in the Courier.”

He snatched the ale from her hand and slammed it on the table, reached over her head and yanked her hood over her face as far as it would go. “There’s a guard right outside this room passing these out to everyone in this establishment. Keep your head down and don’t say a word, or this whole contract will be destroyed. Understand?”

“But—”

_“Do you understand?”_

Talrose grimaced, leaning back from him. “Fine.”

“Good.”

He set one hand on her back and steered her out of the room. When he touched her, the ribbon around his arm buzzed, like a trapped wasp, as though it were thrilled at being so close to its twin. The guard was still waiting in the main foyer, leaning on the bar and trying in vain to flirt with Yrswen. When they passed, he perked up with a rustle of metal.

“Cheers, friend!” He raised his flagon.

Talrose stopped dead.

“I know that voice,” she whispered.

Lucien pressed her on, nodding to the guard. Under his breath, he muttered, “Keep moving.”

But she wouldn’t budge. The guard called over, as they had been standing in the center of the room for several seconds too long, now. “Everything well?”

“Simply feeling nauseous, I’m afraid.” Lucien said.

He heard it, the intake of breath as Talrose opened her drunken mouth to say something they were all going to regret. Before he could think too hard about it, he clamped a hand across her mouth and bodily pushed her out the front door and into the street. Pain shot through his hand—she’d bitten him. He shoved her away, into the middle of the road. The wind had brought with it a misty rain, trickling onto their hair in delicate drops that stuck on their hair like spiderwebs.

“Are you _quite_ mad?” He hissed, rubbing his fingers.

She ignored him and tried to sprint past, back into the tavern, but he caught her around the waist and hurled her back once more. The face that snarled at him was familiar. It was the angry beast from under the castle, the one who had taken his contract, the one who had held a knife to his throat. Talrose paced before him, eyeing the door, an animal in a too-small cage.

“Let me through.” She spat.

“Absolutely not.” Lucien said. “I am not permitted to assist you in any way, but I consider this a blatant risk to my own life, and I will act accordingly. Go to the Temple, find your woman, kill her. We need to get out of the city as soon as possible.”

“Oh, you think?” She jabbed a finger in his face. “I warned you! I warned both of you! I told you I was popular with the law around here, but as usual, no one _fucking_ listens!”

“You neglected to mention that you may have wanted posters getting passed around at the local taverns!” He shot back. “That is not _popular._ That is _notorious_ , and it is a very bad thing for _both_ of us.”

He could see her breath, seething in the chill rain through her clenched teeth. “That was the one who threw me from the bridge. Audas Andellus. Not two days ago! He broke my hands, he beat me down, he would have laughed as I died!”

“And I am certain you would laugh he as did.” Lucien stepped up to her, halting her pacing. He lowered to a voice he usually reserved for the twins. “Accept that you will not kill him today. Take only those lives asked of you by the Night Mother, no more, no less. It is not our duty to murder those _we_ believe deserving. It is our duty to do what has been asked of our dark patrons.”

Something was fighting within her, he could see, battling in her dark eyes. Her face was tight, angry, as she glanced over his shoulder at the door. Probably gauging if she could take him in a straight fight—no—or if she could make it past him faster than her could grab her—also no. The weight of his own Blade of Woe was heavy on his hip, but he didn’t move for it, yet.

There was defiance in her eyes, and she said, “I can’t let this go. I can’t, I…I’ve let too much go already _._ He needs to die.”

“He will die, eventually.” He said. “But that is no longer your duty.”

Gold light swept across the street, a door opening, and a voice bellowed from behind him. “Hey, brother, Yrswen says you haven’t paid your tab yet! Get up here before I take you in!”

Lucien intercepted Talrose, who charged again, confronted by her prey, predictable as a hungry dog. Arms wrapped awkwardly around her head, her hands clawing at his back in an attempt to wrench herself free, they rocked for a moment in a mockery of an embrace.

“Thank you,” Lucien managed over his shoulder. “I will be in shortly.”

“Take your time,” Andellus chortled, and they were closed back in the dark.

He released Talrose, who flung herself back, teeth bared. “Don’t you ever fucking grab me like that again, _n’wah!”_

Lucien didn’t need to know Dunmeri to understand that one. “Keep your voice down. I will be right back.”

“Oh, don’t worry, not like I can _go anywhere!”_ She shouted. “Fetcher!”

With a grumble, she dropped down on the tavern steps, facing the street. That was fine. She could sulk if she wanted. Because she was wrong—she was going somewhere. She was in freefall. Dropping down that pit of freedom towards a fatal mistake. Usually he watched from afar as initiates got themselves into trouble with guards, got cocky, got killed on their contracts. Now he was being dragged down right along with her.

Lucien ducked inside the tavern again, reaching for his coinpurse, when he was stopped by a blade under the chin.

Andellus pushed off the wall beside the door, holding his sword in one hand, and pushing the tavern door closed with his other. It shut behind Lucien with a heavy _bang_. Yrswen was standing behind the bar, arms crossed, Talrose’s wanted poster clenched in one fist.

“I believe there is a misunderstanding,” Lucien said.

“No, no, friend,” Andellus circled around to stand in front of him. The bandaged side of his face bulged, gauze stained brown and fraying at the edges. “I understand perfectly. Now,” he stepped in closer, until Lucien could smell his foul breath. “How is your friend feeling?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everybody, extra long chapter after an extra long wait. seems to be a habit these days...this one was fun for me because we finally get to our second pov character, our beloved lucien. i hope i did him justice!
> 
> I hope everyone had/has a safe holiday! i'll be back with another update as soon as i can. :) once again, i could not be more grateful for all of the amazingly kind comments, kudos and bookmarks this story has received. thank you so much!


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